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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30003057">as a rule, i love you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoslefteyelid/pseuds/taoslefteyelid'>taoslefteyelid</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i have nothing to tell you (save that it is to you i tell this nothing) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>EXO (Band), Z.Tao (Musician)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>ALSO !!! i wrote proper chankai !!!, Anal Sex, Found Family, M/M, Mutual Pining, Road Trips, also taohun make out a lot, and i am nervous w them, and some richard siken quotes here and there, can we talk abt love? im dying to talk about love, chankai ppl pls be gentle, heavy discussion of depression and dissociation, i am very soft and very small, just a huge clusterfuck of emotions rlly, nothing is ever explicit or graphic but these events are brought up, ohhhhhh my god y'all this is it !, so much found family, this isn't a sad fic though !!! just thought i'd warn, warnings for mentions of suicidal tendencies and a visit to the psych ward, working title was nice ass sorry about the mental illness, zitao sends sehun letters &lt;3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:07:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>30,041</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30003057</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/taoslefteyelid/pseuds/taoslefteyelid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Zitao looks at Sehun, completely serious. </p><p>“If loving you is muscle memory,” he says, soft and quiet, and Sehun doesn’t even know if he should be allowed to hear this. “My heart is the strongest muscle I have.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Huang Zi Tao | Z.Tao/Oh Sehun, Kim Jongin | Kai/Park Chanyeol, Kim Junmyeon | Suho/Wu Yi Fan | Kris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i have nothing to tell you (save that it is to you i tell this nothing) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2207052</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>as a rule, i love you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello everyone ! i am FINALLY back with a fic longer than 5k after more than year now OTL,,, i've been working on this bad boy since august of last year i think??? and i'm absolutely thrilled to finally be able to share it today.<br/>few notes before reading!<br/>please read the tags on this ! the fic does get a bit heavy at times, and while nothing is ever explicit, there's nothing wrong with caution<br/>also, this fic isn't very plot oriented; this is more of a go-with-the-flow emotions type deal. sometimes characters make decisions that are stupid, but such is the way of dumb humans with dumb emotions.<br/>i also have a playlist <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/21Vgmj9aY5jsEZnW18pWh0?si=L8lLROGtQ1ahL8-9uUopJg">here.</a> these songs either come up directly in the plot, inspired parts of the fic, or are what i imagine sehun to be listening to on the radio. if you read with music on, i'd love for u to listen to this to get the full experience.<br/>spl note for the chankai here ! im super nervous bc this is my first time handling them at such a scale, and i rlly hope u all enjoy!!! </p><p>at the end of it all, everything is about love. i hope you enjoy this. i love you.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sehun’s completely alone as his hands curl around the leather of the steering wheel. He lets go, and then grips harder. </p><p> </p><p>It’s five am. </p><p> </p><p>He really shouldn’t do this. He should leave a note, something. Last time he drove somewhere, it didn’t particularly end well. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not that he didn’t try. He <em> had </em> stumbled down to the cupboards where he knows Jongin keeps the spare paper, but the first door he opened led to at least 7 pink envelopes falling on him, and after he figured out what they were, he wasn’t in a mood to do anything other than <em> leave </em>.</p><p> </p><p>He glances over to the passenger seat. The envelopes (and presumably the letters inside them) glower angrily back at him. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck it. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun turns the ignition. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The aim is to have no aim, he tells himself, as the sun climbs higher and higher in the sky. Sehun doesn’t know where he’s going, he has no phone, no map. A thrum of panic should be setting over him, realising that he could get lost, and not even know it, but it doesn’t. Maybe because the roads are still familiar, maybe because he doesn’t particularly care about being home right now. </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol and Jongin are probably still asleep, he thinks, as he drives down the road that looks the least familiar out of all the ones yet. It’s a Saturday, nice and warm, and they always sleep in on Saturdays. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re going to fuck this up tremendously,” he whispers to himself. His fingers are white, still clutching the steering wheel the same way they had at 5 am. He really is going to fuck this up, Sehun knows. Nothing he ever does is sans fuck up. He’s probably going to worry his two friends sick, or open one of those stupid letters sitting in the passenger seat and decide to go absolutely feral right there, or drive their car into the side of the highway by mistake (or on purpose, but he’d like to think he’s no longer a danger to himself or others, not right now, at least), or all three, in that particular order. </p><p> </p><p>He chose to do this though. Turning around now is for cowards, and for decidedly not sexy people, and while Sehun may be the biggest coward in the world he sure as fuck looks sexy while doing it, so he’s going to go on an aimless road trip with no one but himself and his hands and the radio and those stupid fucking letters to keep him company. </p><p> </p><p>He turns his attention back to the road, and for a second he isn’t sure where he is. He turns up the radio. </p><p> </p><p>He’s getting there. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>He finds a McDonald's drive-through by lunchtime, and sits in the parking lot eating McNuggets. Now would be the time to make a plan, except the plan is no plan. He has no idea where he’s going to sleep for the night, or how long he’s going to be on the road, but right now that doesn’t matter. It’s just him and his McNuggets. </p><p> </p><p>It’s been a while since he has eaten anything that isn’t Chanyeol’s sub-standard cooking, along with instant rice. In fact, he remembers the last time he was at a McDonald’s very vividly. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I am not getting you a happy meal. They’re overpriced and-” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “But Hun-ah,” comes the whine, and Sehun sighs in the passenger seat.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (Like it should be. He shouldn’t be allowed to drive, especially not stick.)  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “The toys are so cute.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun rolls his eyes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You’re insufferable.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yeah, well, you’ll miss that someday.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ha. If only Sehun had known that “someday” was coming in the next two weeks.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When they roll up to the food collection window, Sehun grumpily retrieves his McNuggets and carelessly tosses the Happy Meal to the driver’s seat.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His McNuggets have gone cold. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Chanyeol,” Jongin says, sounding far away in Chanyeol’s sleep-addled state. “Chanyeol, wake up.”</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere, the back of his mind registers that Jongin sounds panicked, so he tries to pull the blankets off himself, and only gets tangled more. </p><p> </p><p>“What,” he manages to mumble out, trying to reach for Jongin’s hands. “What happened?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sehun. He’s- he’s gone.” </p><p> </p><p>That wakes Chanyeol up completely, and in trying to scramble out of bed in his blanket tangled state, he finds himself on the floor. Great.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean gone?”, he asks, once he manages to pick himself off the floor, with Jongin’s help. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s gone,” and Jongin sounds like he’s close to tears. “Took the car, and there’s no note, and- and he left his phone here, I have no idea where he could be.” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” because Jongin is about to cry, and Chanyeol can’t have that happen. “Hey, we’ll find him, he can’t have gone far, okay?” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin reaches out for him, and Chanyeol pulls him in for a hug. Times like this, he’s glad he’s taller. Feels like he can keep Jongin safe. </p><p> </p><p>“He’ll be fine,” Chanyeol whispers. “He’s an adult, he can take care of himself.” </p><p> </p><p>“I know, I know, I just- I worry.” </p><p> </p><p>Yeah. When it comes to Sehun, Chanyeol worries too. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>He finds a motel to stay the night. It looks decent enough, though it seems like everything is one misstep away from crumbling. He checks in, hauls stuff from the car to his room (including the stupid fucking letters), and collapses in bed. He stays there like that till 11 pm, when he suddenly decides to develop a conscience. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun makes his way down to the payphone near his motel. That’s how old it is. They have <em> payphones </em>.</p><p> </p><p>The booth is tiny, and Sehun is almost too tall for it. Claustrophobia isn’t something he suffers with, but something about being squeezed into a booth with profanities from decades ago scrawled all over it is stifling. It smells weird too. His fingers shake as he slips the coin in. </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol picks up on the second ring. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello?”, he asks. Sehun can sense how worried he is, and he feels like a dick. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” he says softly.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a sharp intake of breath over the phone. </p><p> </p><p>“Sehun?”, and Sehun can make out scrambling in the background. Jongin, probably. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Where the fuck are you? Are you okay? What were you <em> thinking- </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“I need to be away for awhile. I’m sorry for taking the car.”</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, Sehun- I don’t give a fuck about the car, where are you?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Sehun says, dodging the question with the gracefulness of a camel on rollerskates. “Don’t worry about me.” </p><p> </p><p>“We’re not going to just- just <em> stop </em>worrying about you,” Chanyeol says, and Sehun sighs. </p><p> </p><p>“You aren’t responsible for me,” Sehun says quietly. He knows both of them feel like they are, because Sehun has been a broken mess for most of the time they’ve known him, but he needs to remind them they aren’t. </p><p> </p><p>“Like hell I’m not.” </p><p> </p><p>“Chanyeol-”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh Sehun, I haven’t wiped drool off your face at 3 am to be told that I can’t worry about you. We’re your friends. We love you.” </p><p> </p><p>He sounds like a disgruntled parent. Sehun resists the urge to hang up right then, fingers twitching dangerously. </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol’s right though. For what it’s worth, Sehun’s always had someone worrying about him. Jongin first, and then Chanyeol, and then- no, he’s not around anymore. Fucking idiot is still worrying though, halfway across the country. The edges of the phone hurt from how tight he’s gripping it. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be fine,” Sehun mumbles. “I’ll be back soon, I just, need to do something. Everything is so much back home.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sehun-” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll call you in a few days, Chanyeol. Tell Jongin I love him. Sorry about the car. Love you.”</p><p> </p><p>Sehun doesn’t wait to hear his response before hanging up.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>As he settles into bed again, his gaze falls on the pile of letters. Seven of them, only to serve as a reminder of how much time has passed. </p><p> </p><p>There should be eight. He remembers the day the first one had come, tied into the little bundle of money and notes. The only letter was addressed to him, probably because Sehun stopped answering texts forever ago. Sehun remembers running his fingers over the careful way his name had been written, feeling the smoothness of the envelope, turning it over. Ripping it in half and setting it on the kitchen table. Not leaving his bedroom for three days after. </p><p> </p><p>He’s turning what’s presumably the second one, judging by the date on it, over in his hands the same way. Fingers tracing over the script, he thinks about how they come every month, and how every month Jongin gives him a questioning look before shoving them into the cupboard. </p><p> </p><p>Another one of those “fuck it” moments overcomes him, just like in the car that morning. He opens the flap of the envelope, and watches as cream coloured writing paper falls out. The handwriting on it is faintly visible, akin to chicken scratch. </p><p> </p><p>It looks intimidating, too clean against the dirty bedsheets of the motel. Sehun has half an urge to burn it right there, but if he does he doesn’t know what else will catch fire. He doesn’t want to have an arson charge on his head. </p><p> </p><p>His fingers burn though, without any flames licking at them. The paper feels brittle, flammable under his hands when he picks the letter up. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hun-ah, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Of course it opens with that. It always opens with that.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Chanyeol told me you didn’t really feel like reading my first letter. That’s okay. It’ll be okay if you never read this, or any of the ones that come after. I just need to pretend like I’m talking to you, selfish bastard that I am.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun snorts. Wow. Someone being charming and funny and self aware has never made him feel more angry. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I miss you. I knew I would, but wow. You really have a way of worming inside people and living in their bones. In their veins too. That analogy sounds kind of gross but you know what I mean.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Honestly, I hope you never read these, I sound like an idiot.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Sehun mumbles. “You do.” </p><p> </p><p>His blood feels warmer.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The job is good. It’s a lot of work and I’m tired all the time, but I think it’s worth it. Jongin told me that you guys were able to get new clothes for everyone. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun’s wearing the shirt that they got that month right now. He wants to bury into it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> God, I miss you. I already said that, but this is my 3rd draft of this letter and if I’m going to ramble, so be it. I wish you would talk to me. There’s so many things I have to say but I have no one to say them to.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I hope you’re okay. I worry everyday, and I know, way to make it about me, but I do. So much. Chanyeol updates me on how you’re doing but I just… I worry. I think I always will. Even if you never read this, even if you hate me forever.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun shifts, uncomfortable, and he’s on fire, from the inside out. His lungs hurt. No matter what he says, he doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t think he can.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I hope you read this. I hope you never read this. Both. Either. I don’t know. I just want you to look at me again.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His fingers tremble and he's burning, like he has a fever and everything hurts, and he can’t breathe. Sehun glances away from the letter, in another direction, away, away from the flames, but he glances back. He always glances back at the letter, at him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I am never truly away from you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun doesn’t realise he’s crying, a futile attempt to put out the inferno he is right now. Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god, he’s made so many mistakes, oh god, he should go home, he should stop, drop, and roll, he is alone right now and there is no one to tackle him in a blanket and pat him until he is covered with soot and gratitude, and oh god. Sehun has burned since he was born, but this still hurts more, and so he gives in. </p><p> </p><p>The sun rises, and he is ashes.</p><p> </p><p>--- </p><p> </p><p>“If Sehun drives our car into a wall again, I’ll kill him. I’ll drag him out of that car a second time, get him fixed up, and then I’ll kill him.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin is drunk, and Chanyeol is in love with him. </p><p> </p><p>He laughs gently. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. He’s… fucking stupid and I hate him.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll be okay,” Chanyeol says softly. “I know he will.”</p><p> </p><p>He isn’t sure he fully believes that, nervously tapping his foot, but Jongin doesn’t need to know. </p><p> </p><p>“Still stupid,” Jongin mumbles. “I wish we could make it easier for him.”</p><p> </p><p>“I do too, but you know we can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>Jongin’s hand covers Chanyeol’s. </p><p> </p><p>“He better be okay at the end of this trip of his.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol wishes he could say with certainty that he will be, but he can’t, and he’s trying not to show Jongin how worried he is, so he settles for pulling Jongin closer to him on the couch, and kissing his forehead. </p><p> </p><p>“We started out with four people,” Jongin mumbles. “And Chanyeol, babe, as much as I- as I love you, and I’m <em> so </em>gonna marry you one day, it’s not the same with just us.” </p><p> </p><p>His heart seizes up, and Chanyeol tries to hide his smile. It may not be the same, and the house may seem empty as fuck without Sehun scuttling around in his room, and it’s been too quiet for the past few months without Zitao playing the keyboard whenever he could, but Jongin plans to marry him one day. </p><p> </p><p>For tonight, he can live with just that.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Sehun picks himself off the floor, because he has to. If housekeeping finds him lying on the cigarette burned carpet with messy hair and a tearstained face, unwilling to move, it’s more probable that they won’t care, but the small chance that they <em> will </em>and will attempt to fuss over him gets him up. Besides, the carpet smells like ashes, and it’s too close to Sehun’s extended metaphor for his breakdown for comfort. </p><p> </p><p>It shouldn’t be this easy to send Sehun into a spiral, but he’s a mess and he’d been driving all day, and it’s Zitao. Another reminder of the horrible, horrible little ball of rage and pain that lives in the pit of his stomach, that grew a size bigger 8 months ago. </p><p> </p><p>He needs to get out of here, he realises. He wonders how long this feeling of restlessness will persist, if he’ll ever be able to sleep somewhere and not want to immediately bolt once he wakes. It’s like he’s awoken something by leaving his home. </p><p> </p><p>He wonders if he’ll ever go back. </p><p> </p><p>It takes another ten minutes after he sits up to get himself to go to the bathroom. When he washes his face, he doesn’t meet his own eye in the mirror. Mirror-work does the opposite of what it’s supposed to for him.</p><p> </p><p>He’s packed before breakfast service starts. The remaining letters are stuffed in the backpack that he fishes a wrinkled button down out of. His skin itches slightly under it. </p><p> </p><p>The sun isn’t as blinding as it was the day before. It’s a cloudy day, Sehun realises, as he drives. Good. He doesn’t think he can face the sun today. He eyes the clouds; they’re not the stormy type. Pity. Sehun could really use a wild storm to unleash into. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun decides to drive east, go where the sun should be. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to find. He hopes it’ll be something beautiful. </p><p> </p><p>More likely, it’ll be something violent. </p><p> </p><p>The highway murmurs calmingly through the radio. It can be both.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Driving is repetitive, and this particular stretch of highway has nothing interesting going on. Tree, bush, rock, billboard for wifi, billboard for a pyramid scheme, tree, rock. He’s never been on an actual road trip before (the trip the four of them had made to drop Zitao off at his new apartment doesn’t count, because Sehun was so lost in himself he barely remembers anything) but he expected them to be more fun. </p><p> </p><p>It’s better than his room though. These past few weeks have been better, but better for Sehun doesn’t always mean good. Sehun can only imagine how he looks on the bad days, lying in the sheets, blank stare. Jongin and Chanyeol try, but there’s only so much they can do. </p><p> </p><p>It feels like he was born with a gaping hole inside his chest. Sometimes, when he lays in bed after a shower, not clothed save for the water that clings to his skin, he’ll put his hand over where it would be, and it feels tangible, even though his fingers meet the warm skin over his sternum. He will stay there for a while, running his hands over the space in his chest that should be empty, before his fingers find other places to explore. </p><p> </p><p>The hole fills sometimes, different things each time. Most times when it’s full, it’s in a good way, when he’s being cared for by his friends, when he’s singing in the kitchen, when he makes his bed and cleans his room and smiles. Love, music, pride. </p><p> </p><p>Other times the ball of rage that lives in his stomach migrates up in there. It’s the perfect size, pushing almost uncomfortably against the edges. When it travels back down, he feels emptier than ever. </p><p> </p><p>Mostly though, it lives undisturbed. Sehun has no use of it, but this is how it’s always been. He finds, however, that if he runs fast enough, long enough, the wind rushes through, and the rain hits just right, and flowers start to grow.</p><p><br/>
As long as he keeps running. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What am I supposed to do with these?”, Sehun asks, gesturing vaguely at his hands, with his hands. “Like, where do I put them?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> A pause. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Lots of places,” Zitao says softly, lying by him in bed. “You can put them over the tomatoes in the fridge and make something to eat. You can put them in the snow outside and feel how cold it gets sometimes. You can put them on your clothes and fold them up and put them away. You don’t have to, though. They won’t hold it against you.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun listens, transfixed, eyes sparkling in a way they rarely do. That one time with his therapist. Sometimes with Jongin, sometimes with Chanyeol. A lot of times with Zitao.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s not like Zitao is magical, like Sehun’s existence hinges on his every move. But Zitao makes it easier most times. And when he can’t, he just listens. Gives Sehun what he needs.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You can put them on my keyboard upstairs. You’re getting way better, you know? You’ll be better than me soon.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun laughs gently. Zitao tries to pretend like he isn’t memorising it.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You can put them on that dog that lives next door. I’m sure he’d appreciate some petting. You can put them on that deck of cards we have. I know Chanyeol misses playing Go Fish with you. You can put them on your phone, put on that song you like.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> A quiet lull falls over them, and Sehun feels better about his hands already. He asks this question a lot, when he feels too disconnected from his own body, like there’s a sheet of glass between him and the driver’s seat. Sometimes Zitao does this, practically lists it all out, reminds Sehun that there are small things his hands are meant to do. Other times, he pretends to give Sehun a palm reading, tells him he has hands because he has a future. Traces the wrinkles and lines, tells him stories about how every single one of them stands for time and gentleness and love.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao isn’t magic, but he makes it better. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You can put them here,” Zitao says quietly, extending his own hands.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun does.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It gets easier when the sun sets, and it’s darker, and Sehun can focus on what’s in front of his headlights and under the street lamps, not having to look at his hands. </p><p> </p><p>The roads are different now, less rocks and more trees, but it’s the same dullness. He doesn’t know where he is. At all. Not the faintest clue. </p><p> </p><p>Finally. </p><p> </p><p>There are a few other cars on the road with him, and silently Sehun is thankful for them. The occasional headlights of someone passing by reminds him that he is not all there is in the world, which is a good reminder to have. </p><p> </p><p>It gets cramped in the car, he has realised, and he has a newfound respect for Chanyeol for driving them long distances every time they needed to (and he’s very consciously not thinking about how usually Zitao used to take over halfway through, which means he’s definitely thinking about it) because good god, his legs hurt. </p><p> </p><p>The ache is welcome though. Anything he can feel is welcome. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun sighs, and switches gears. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Jongin runs his fingers across the dust on Sehun’s dresser. It comes off, leaving four straight clean lines, while his fingers are now caked with assorted fluff. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun’s fine with his room being cleaned and his stuff being moved, it’s just that it feels weird doing it while he’s in the same vicinity. He cleans it sometimes on his own, on good days that precede good weeks, but he hasn’t had one of those in a while, and things have gotten extremely messy. </p><p> </p><p>“We should clean here more,” Chanyeol mentions, trying not to cough as he encounters more dust. He says it casually, as if he hasn’t been worrying himself sick over Sehun the past few hours. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Jongin agrees. “I just- I don’t know, I don’t want him to get the wrong impression. Think that we think he’s fragile or something.”</p><p> </p><p>“He won’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, I know, it’s just-”</p><p><br/>
Jongin sighs, setting down the notebook on Sehun’s desk that he’d picked up. </p><p> </p><p>“I was reading this article his therapist emailed us, and it was about how treating people like they’re, I don’t know, on the verge of collapse, just makes things worse. And- and I know that’s not what we mean to do, but I couldn’t help but wonder, what if we end up doing it anyways?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Chanyeol says, crossing over to get to Jongin. “You know Sehun would’ve told us if he felt that way.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, but it’s just… I’ve been taking care of him since we were 16, and I still don’t know if some things I do are helping or hurting. I don’t want him to think that I think he can’t take care of himself, because I know he can, I just want it to be easier, and with what happened-” </p><p> </p><p>“Woah, woah,” and Chanyeol’s voice is soft. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Nini.”</p><p> </p><p>Jongin takes a breath, and looks at Chanyeol. </p><p> </p><p>“All we do is try to be supportive. There’s not much else we <em> can </em> do. Sehun isn’t helpless and he knows it, and he knows we do too. He just… he struggles, and he needs to know that he isn’t alone. That we’ll be there for him to wash his hands, and fix his appointments, and clean his room if he can’t do it on his own. That he doesn’t <em> need </em>to do it on his own.”</p><p> </p><p>Jongin lets that sit for a minute. Chanyeol is right, he always is when it comes to things like this. He can’t help but worry though. It’s what he does. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun isn’t alone. Won’t ever be while the three of them are still around. </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol’s hands, calloused from working double shifts to pay for the eggs in the fridge and the new data plan and Sehun’s therapy, reach for Jongin’s. His shoulders relax, and he stops thinking about what the therapist says and what they’ll have for dinner tonight and if he remembers where he put his slippers and how Sehun must be doing alone, and focuses on what’s in front of them right now. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll make the bed,” he says, quiet. </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol smiles, and kisses his cheek.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Sehun finds another motel, this time with a Subway attached. He doesn’t mind Subway for dinner, so he checks in, even though he doesn’t really want to stop driving. The flowers have made a lot of progress. </p><p> </p><p>The chairs in the Subway are that cheap plastic, and the one Sehun chooses to sit in screeches like it wants the whole world to know of his continued existence. Luckily, the only other person there is the tired cashier who’s trying to convince the oven to work so that Sehun can place his order. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun taps his foot nervously, and it looks like the oven is going to take a lot more than some half hearted pleading to work, and he wonders if he should leave. That’d be rude, though. Should he just ask for a cookie? He doesn’t want a cookie, but waiting here is awkward and oh no, his brain has too many thoughts in it, so now he’s probably just going to stay planted in this chair for an hour. </p><p> </p><p>He sighs, hands tightening around his backpack strap. He’s taken to carrying it everywhere with him. The fluorescent lights flicker softly above him. It feels like he’s in a place where nothing never happens. </p><p> </p><p>He finds himself playing with the zipper of his backpack, the one that opens the pocket that has all the other letters. He takes a deep breath, and tries not to think of the lonely pink envelope lying on the carpet of the room who knows how many miles away. </p><p> </p><p>Zip.</p><p> </p><p>He left his phone at home when he decided to drive off, and so now he has nothing to fiddle with to look at least somewhat normal. </p><p> </p><p>Unzip. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun looks down at his backpack again, and his fingers twitch. Fuck his stupid brain for doing this to him. </p><p> </p><p>He reaches for an envelope. </p><p> </p><p>A quick glance confirms that it’s the third; Sehun didn’t need to check, considering he’d compulsively ordered them by date six times before stuffing them in, but he wants to delay reading this as much as possible. </p><p> </p><p>He rips the flap, and oh fuck, the sound is so loud. The cashier turns to look, and Sehun is startled, so he jerks the envelope, and suddenly, there’s a fucking coin scrambling out of it. </p><p> </p><p>“Shit,” Sehun whispers under his breath, as the coin clatters near one of the tables. The cashier stares at him, taking a break from occasionally hitting the oven with assorted objects. Trying to pretend like he isn’t being watched, he rises to make his way over to the table, wincing as his chair screeches yet again. </p><p> </p><p>He crouches and retrieves the coin, and awkwardly gives the cashier a thumbs up, before bumping his head against the table. It takes everything in him in that moment to not sit down on the floor of this Subway that has the vibes of what zero divided by zero does and have a breakdown, and instead make his way back to his very excitable chair. </p><p> </p><p>The coin is cool in his hand, mockingly reminding him of his embarrassment. He goes to examine it, and wonders why Zitao would enclose a singular coin. It looks normal, nothing wild-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There, punched into the metal. 1994. </p><p> </p><p>Never in his life has Sehun felt so breathless because of a coin. This is <em> so </em>1980’s schoolboy of Zitao, and yet it still manages to get Sehun clutching the edge of the table like a Victorian lady about to have a fainting fit. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun sets the coin down gently, as if it’s made of uranium instead of copper, and turns his attention to the paper rustling between his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hun-ah, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I guess it’s safe to assume you didn’t read my last letter either. Chanyeol tells me you didn’t violently destroy it, which is an improvement. I think.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t know why I’m writing this, since you’re probably never going to read it, but you know. Keeping up the pretense of talking to you is keeping me sane. I wish you weren’t angry at me. I wish I knew how to fix it.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun swallows. The little ball in his stomach is telling him to rip this letter up too, but every single atom in the rest of his body is thrumming, trying to get him to acknowledge the fact that he’s the one being irrational. He turns back to the letter. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That aside, I have so many things to tell you. It’s raining right now as I write this, and it’s really pretty from out the window. Lonely, since I’m not used to watching the rain alone, but pretty.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun turns to innocuously look out the glass door and see if somehow it’s started raining here, and now, too. It hasn’t. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Last week, I attempted to cook pasta puttanesca. I wasn’t very good at it though, which meant I had to clean a bunch more dishes than usual and then eat something that tasted… decent. Not good. Decent.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re a better cook than me, which is saying something. Surely you could make puttanesca taste way nicer than I could.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun resists the urge to laugh. Him and kitchens aren’t the best of friends, and Zitao knows this for a <em> fact </em>. He tries not to think of Zitao laughing at him burning the japchae a second time at 3 am, before bundling him up and carefully sneaking out to get takeout, trying not to wake Chanyeol and Jongin. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anyways, I’m thinking of you right now. Always am, it feels like. The nights get lonely, and yes, I miss Chanyeol, and I miss Jongin, but I miss you most. Don’t tell Chanyeol I said that though. You know how he gets.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He smiles, and he can’t stop it. Zitao is thinking of him. Was. Whatever. </p><p> </p><p><em> I feel like I should write you the longest letter. Pages and pages, endless, till the envelope is bursting at the seams and the post office tells me to go back home and find a bigger one, but I’ll never be able to. There’s so much, Hun-ah. So much stuff that happens that I need to tell you about, so many cats that wander into my building, and you know how allergic I am, so I have to find out a way to feed them (because they just look </em> so <em> sad), without coming in contact with them, there’s so many times the sky lights up pink instead of blue at 6 pm, there’s so much of you everywhere.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I want to write to you about how I miss my keyboard, how sometimes I’ll wake up at 3 am and start to make my way out of bed to get to you before I realise where I am, how the sun rises slower over here. It’s cold because it’s raining, Hun-ah, so I’ll tell you about that too, I’ll tell you about the weather, I’ll be mundane.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And I think the post office will find, when I come to them and tell them I can’t find a bigger envelope, that every single one of my infinite pages can be boiled down to a single sentence: I miss you. I wish you were here. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Not this again. Not Zitao again, in his head, in his hands, saying things and <em> meaning </em> them. Sehun should’ve burned these letters, or just never opened them, because now he’s seeing what he’s been ignoring and it all <em> hurts </em>. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jesus fucking Christ, listen to me. What the fuck am I even saying.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You make me stupid, Hun. Completely stupid. I spend all day at work trying to crunch numbers and sound like I know what I’m talking about (I don’t), and then the second I think about you, that’s it. I’m gone.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun wishes he had his phone right now. He’s never wanted to angrily text someone more. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s late now. I’m a little tired but I want to keep writing. Say everything you want me to. God, I wish I knew what it was you wanted me to say, I really do. I would say it, over and over. Till I got tired, and then I would write it down in a million different ways.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I really hope you read this. I’ll think about you again in the morning. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> P.S. Since this is a lot shorter than I want it to be, I’m sending you one of the things this week that made me think of you. It’s supposed to bring luck. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun should be crying but he isn’t, because he’s in a Subway under fluorescent lights and he has a loud chair, and too much of him is a spectacle already. His fingers clutch the coin till he can barely feel it, hands numb. It’s like all the anger burnt out of him on that hotel room floor, and now he’s just left with this. A void.</p><p> </p><p>Sehun doesn’t deal well with change. It seems that Zitao doesn’t either.</p><p> </p><p>From the far side of the room, he hears the oven ding.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Sehun leaves early that morning. It’s still dark, as it tends to be at 4 am, but the motel room is itchy and small, and he needs to be somewhere that’s not there. The car is starting to feel like home now, and Sehun’s fingers are numb when they clasp the wheel. </p><p> </p><p>There’s soft music playing on the radio, something about the moon and water, and for a second, Sehun feels like he’s going to burst. </p><p> </p><p>He hopes that if he turns the radio up high enough, he won’t have to think for a while.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hey, Hun-ah,” Zitao says, casually, as Sehun shuffles to the fridge to get a snack, as if this isn’t the first time Sehun has emerged from his room in the past week. “Bet you I could catch a grape with my mouth if Chanyeol threw it from the living room.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun takes a second to actually take in the scene in front of him. Zitao’s standing behind the kitchen island, facing the living room, where Chanyeol stands with a whole bunch of grapes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Uh. What the fuck did I just walk into?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao grins at him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No, this is perfect, you can make sure Yeol isn’t cheating.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Excuse me, I would </em>never-” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao shushes him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No speaking. Only throwing.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun gives them a look and shakes his head as he grabs a carton of apple juice.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “There’s no way you could catch it,” he says. Zitao looks at him, wounded.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I thought you were on my side!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Chanyeol laughs, in his typical loud manner. Luckily no one is near him for him to slap the shit out of. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> “This is the worst moment of my life. I’ve been betrayed. Backstabbed. Ruined.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No speaking,” Sehun says, and he can feel himself smile. “Only catching.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao gapes at him, and Chanyeol whoops from the living room, vindicated.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You catch five grapes within eight tries, and I’ll take it back,” Sehun explains. “And you aren’t allowed to eat the grapes until you get all five.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Piece of cake. Come on, Yeol, let’s do this.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Sehun watches with bated breath as Chanyeol pulls the first grape off the stem, and launches it, watches as it soars through the room and manages to fall just short of the kitchen island. They stare at the fallen grape in silence, and then Sehun </em> laughs <em> , and the whole room pauses, still for a second, before Zitao and Chanyeol are laughing too.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The hole in his chest is filled, warm and loving, and it seems like time dilates, because the next second Zitao is cheering through five grapes in his mouth, and it seems like Chanyeol has flung grapes all over the floor in excitement.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao scrambles over to Sehun, and then he’s being picked up. Sehun makes a small sound of surprise, but he’s smiling all the while.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Nrow tahke id vack,” Zitao says, unintelligible through the grapes in his mouth. Sehun gives him a “what the fuck?” look, and Zitao adjusts him in his arms, and swallows the grapes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Take it back,” he says, slightly breathless.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun tips his head back, and shares a grin with Chanyeol.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fine,” he says. “I take it back. You are so talented. I hereby crown you King of the Grapes.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fuck yeah!”, Zitao says, and then he’s spinning them. Sehun laughs again, clinging harder. “You hear that? King of the Grapes, baby!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Wait,” Sehun says, through a giggle, as Chanyeol cheers for the King of the Grapes. “Take me closer to Chanyeol.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao obliges almost immediately, and Sehun looks up at Chanyeol, who’s grinning sheepishly at him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You,” Sehun says, gesturing vaguely with the apple juice in his hand, “are the worst grape thrower I have ever seen in my life.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Chanyeol looks genuinely offended for a second, before they’re all laughing again. Chanyeol almost doubles over at one point, on the verge of tears, and Sehun can feel Zitao’s arms shake under him. He isn’t worried though.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao won’t drop him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Jongin finds Chanyeol on the couch in front of the television at 4 am, obsessively flipping through news channels. </p><p> </p><p>“Babe?”, he asks blearily, shuffling over to the couch. “What are you doing?”</p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol starts. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “Sorry if I woke you.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, it’s okay, I just wanted to get some water. What’s going on?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m just-”</p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol pauses, as if trying to figure out what he’s doing himself.</p><p> </p><p>“Keeping an eye on things,” he finally sighs. He doesn’t say it outright, but they both know what he means. Jongin sits next to him on the couch. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t do this to yourself,” Jongin says softly. </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol turns to look at him, and his eyes are a little teary and a little angry. He turns back to the TV, and flips to yet another local news channel. They’re both hoping he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Jongin watches him set his jaw.</p><p> </p><p>It sinks in then how much Chanyeol has been holding his worry back so far. He’s been reassuring Jongin this whole time, but it seems like his much more emotional nature has finally taken over.</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll be fine-”</p><p> </p><p>“I just want to be sure. Just... just to be safe.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin bites his lip. </p><p> </p><p>“Did you call Zitao?”, he asks, a gentle step away for a second. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, he’s just as worried as we are. He says that if Sehun thinks he can handle it we should let him be, though.” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s right.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p> </p><p>The air is heavy, and Chanyeol changes the channel again. They both look to the screen for a second, hoping not to see anything akin to a massive pileup thanks to a car that looks like theirs. Thankfully, it’s nothing. </p><p> </p><p>“I just,” Chanyeol starts, voice trembling a bit. “We don’t even know where he is. What he’s doing. Fuck, the last time he got in a car-” </p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Jongin says, rushing to hold Chanyeol. “It’s a scary situation. But you have to remember, he can take care of himself. And he’s not damaged goods. He does his therapy and he takes his meds and he does his best. He’s in a way better state than he was a few months ago.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol sighs. </p><p> </p><p>“And if he says he can handle this, and his therapist agrees, I think it’s best to trust him with it,” Jongin continues. </p><p> </p><p>Their hands find each other, and they sit in silence for a bit. Chanyeol still looks upset. </p><p> </p><p>Jongin takes a breath. </p><p> </p><p>“You know,” he starts, barely above a whisper. “There was a time, before I met you, when the two of us had just moved out. It was right after his parents kicked him out, so he had to deal with all of that, along with dropping out, and it was a lot for both of us. I didn’t have enough money to get him to therapy, and he tried his best but he could barely get out of bed, let alone get a job.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol turns to listen. Their hands grip each other tighter. </p><p> </p><p>“And it was tough on both of us. He’d… fuck up, and then I’d get pissed because I was like 18 and working full time and also juggling college while taking care of him. I’d bottle it up and take care of him, wipe the blood off his hands and clean up whatever he broke, but it took a toll on me. I got more distracted, more neglectful, and I was barely scraping by on top of that.” </p><p> </p><p>Now he’s the one getting teary. It was a rough time for them. Jongin still has nightmares about it. </p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t taking the time to take care of myself, to breathe. I didn’t think I had any other options at the time, but now that I look back, I just needed to… sit down and figure things out. Drop that extra class. Ask if Sehun could get the groceries. But I was so busy juggling things and worrying about him, treating him like he was this broken doll I had to take care of, that I just didn’t realise it.” </p><p> </p><p>A breath. And another. Chanyeol squeezes his hand. </p><p> </p><p>“One day, I think he just had enough. Because- because I got back home from work one day and he was just… gone. Left a note on the kitchen table, thanking me for taking care of him but not wanting to <em> burden </em> me. So I was just… just standing there, trying to figure out exactly what the fuck just happened.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Chanyeol says softly. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Jongin agrees.</p><p> </p><p>“I couldn’t find him, Yeol,” he continues after a brief silence grips them, and his voice breaks. “I looked everywhere, and I couldn’t find him. The authorities weren’t willing to help, and- and-” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin takes another breath, and Chanyeol wipes a tear off his face. </p><p> </p><p>“I was all he had back then,” he says softly. “He was only gone for a week, but- but god, every time I got a call from an unknown number, I- I was so scared it was going to be someone telling me that- that he-” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin can’t finish his sentence, letting Chanyeol swoop in to hold him. A moment passes before he pulls himself back together. </p><p> </p><p>“Anyways, once he came back, I was so paranoid over him all the time that I managed to fall really sick. So for like two weeks, we had no money coming in, and Sehun tried his best, and you know how he is when it comes down to it. We made it through, but just barely. Sehun was at the lowest point in his life, but he was out running errands and selling things so that <em> he </em> could take care of <em> me </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>He sighs. </p><p> </p><p>“I think what I’m trying to say is that… when you love someone like Sehun, you can’t take care of him unless you’re taking care of yourself. You can tell him you’ll do anything he needs, but when the time comes, you need to be able to do it. And a big part of that is knowing when to trust him. He’s… not a broken doll. He’s our friend, and he’s stupidly funny on days where his brain isn’t plunged in hellfire, and he gives better advice than anyone I’ve ever met, and right now, he’s doing slightly better than the 17 year old who was almost dying because of how careless he was with himself every six months, the same one who put all his self-hatred and callousness aside to fucking make me chicken soup. You can’t sit here tracking the local news like this, because you need to go to work tomorrow, and you need to sleep well. You can’t take care of anyone else if you aren’t taking care of yourself, Chanyeol.” </p><p> </p><p>Their hands have melted together by now. Jongin would be happy if they had to hold hands forever. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Chanyeol says quietly. They both let it sit for a minute. </p><p> </p><p>It’ll be okay.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Sehun drives till night falls. It’s been a long day, and the only breaks he took were for lunch. Somehow, he finds a Holiday Inn (a swanky one too, if the piano in the reception area is anything to go by), and decides to stop for the night.</p><p> </p><p>Checking in takes too long, and getting up to his room takes longer. Once he walks in though, he realises how badly he needs a good, long bath, one that doesn’t involve trying not to step on mold or bugs. The motels he stopped at were <em> really </em> not very well taken care of. </p><p> </p><p>He sets his bags down and peels his clothes off, intent on scrubbing the heaviness away with the grime. He resists the urge to sit down in the shower.</p><p> </p><p>The heaviness is there to stay, though, it seems, as he steps out and reaches for the too-white and too-fluffy towel, but he doesn’t mind it. His muscles are relaxed, and it’s now less of a 200 kilogram weight that can and will splinter bones and more of a weighted blanket situation. </p><p> </p><p>He fishes a fresh set of clothes out from his bag, and burrows under the covers. It’s always too cold in these places. </p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes pass, Sehun doing nothing but staring at the ceiling. It’s another five minutes before he musters the courage to roll over and pick up the bedside phone. He dials the number to Jongin’s mobile. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello?”</p><p> </p><p>Sehun sits up a bit.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” he says. There’s silence on the other end, most probably Jongin motioning at Chanyeol to get over.</p><p> </p><p>“Sehun?”, Jongin asks softly, trying to hide the relief in his voice. He’s not doing a very good job. “How’s- how’s the road trip going?” </p><p> </p><p>Sehun laughs. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s good,” he says, as if they’re just chatting. “Just a bunch of trees and rocks judging me as I drive by. Also, a lot of back pain? Like, it’s weird how much my spine hates sitting in one spot for 12 hours a day, who knew that was an issue?” </p><p> </p><p>“Looking forward to your research paper on that when you get back,” Jongin tries to play along. A pause. Then, “You <em> are </em> going to come back, right?”                   </p><p> </p><p>Sehun clutches the phone a bit tighter. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” he says, trying to smile, to let Jongin and by extension Chanyeol (and by extension Zitao) know that he’s fine, that this time he’s wearing his seatbelt when he drives, that he’ll be okay. “I’m depressed, not deranged.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin doesn’t laugh, but Sehun knows he’s a lot more at ease. </p><p> </p><p>“Good. You have no idea how much Chanyeol has been talking my ear off about this these past few days. You’re lucky you don’t have your phone, or you’d have a million missed calls by now.” </p><p> </p><p>“Honestly, that doesn’t even sound like an exaggeration.” </p><p> </p><p>“It isn’t.” </p><p> </p><p>They simmer in that for a while, and Sehun misses home for the first time since he left. The feeling passes quickly, though, and the itch to be anywhere but where he is comes crashing back. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re okay?”, Jongin asks, quiet. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Sehun says. He doesn’t know if that’s a lie. “Don’t worry.” </p><p> </p><p>“I won’t ever stop worrying. I don’t think any of us will. But… I’m glad you’re doing okay. Be careful on the road.” </p><p> </p><p>“Always.” </p><p> </p><p>“Also,” Jongin says, and he sounds a bit unsure. “If you can… You should call Zitao.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“He’s just as worried as the two of us,” Jongin explains. </p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Sehun says, his voice suddenly hoarse. He <em> should </em> call Zitao. He probably isn’t going to, but he should. “Bye Nini,” he says, trying to brush it off. “Love you. Tell Chanyeol I said love you to him too.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin sighs. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that.” </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> As his fingers start to wrinkle, Sehun wonders how long he’s been here. At this point, it could’ve been an hour, or ten minutes, and he wouldn’t know the difference.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He’s sitting fully clothed in his filled bathtub. You know, as you do.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When the door creaks open, Sehun barely moves. He doesn’t feel like turning to see who it is. He knows, anyways.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “There you are,” Zitao says, as if they’ve been playing a game of hide and seek. “Missed you at dinner.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Not hungry,” Sehun mumbles out. His voice sounds heavy, even to himself.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “That’s okay,” Zitao says simply. “I still missed you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You always do.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao laughs, and walks over to the bathtub.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yeah,” he agrees. “Always will.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun finally looks up, and Zitao’s looking at him like he always is, always has.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hi,” he whispers, clumsily. The water feels a lot cooler.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hey,” Zitao says, and then he’s stretching his hand out. It’s an inviting gesture, fingers beckoning slightly.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun takes it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> His hand slips into Zitao’s softly, dripping water everywhere, getting Zitao’s sleeve wet. Zitao doesn’t try to pull him up, just strokes his hand, warm and firm.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This is what they do. Always, always, always, Zitao puts out a hand, and Sehun takes it.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m tired,” Sehun announces. “Everything is way too sad and grey right now.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao takes a step to the other side, their hands out in some strange recreation of that one super old and famous painting. He blinks, and before he knows it, Zitao’s in the bathtub with him. Water threatens to spill out onto the floor, but it’s a big bathtub.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They’re still holding hands somehow, stretched across the ends of the tub.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao says nothing as Sehun shifts in the water. It’s cold, a puddle of drab grey, but it’s a little more bearable.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It takes another five minutes of silence before Sehun moves, albeit awkwardly, with water sloshing all over the place, till they’re both cramped into one end of the bathtub, Sehun’s head resting on Zitao’s shoulder, and his body covering Zitao’s.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s uncomfortable and a tight fit, and getting up will be a pain, but Zitao’s hands come to his hair, and right now, it’s worth the discomfort.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You know,” Zitao hums after a while, “I’ll sit with you here as long as you want me to. But it’s not always like this.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao’s shirt is damp against his cheek. He’s so warm.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Remind me?”, Sehun asks. He does forget sometimes, that things can be beautiful.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Well,” Zitao says, “Somewhere out there, there’s a beach. The sea is clear and blue and the sand is nice and warm and it’s beautiful. There are palm trees and seashells strewn all over, and if you go far enough you can see the fish in the water.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It always starts with the sea.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It’s so far away, though,” Sehun says, muffled.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao hums. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “True. Doesn’t make it less pretty.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They pause for a while.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “If you want something closer to home though,” Zitao says quietly after a bit, “You could always just look in a mirror.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun snorts.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Haha, funny,” he says, deadpan. His chin dips slightly into the water as Zitao shifts. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao cranes his neck to look at Sehun.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What? I’m being serious.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They look at each other, and Sehun is overcome by the urge to lean forward slightly, press a kiss to the water hanging on Zitao’s jaw. He doesn’t, though. That would toe the line too much.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ll help you clean your room when you feel like getting out of here,” Zitao whispers softly, once the moment passes. “We’ll make it look a little less grey.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun’s still in his little puddle, but as he watches Zitao smile, he thinks that it’s okay, because he has company, and the view is nice.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Sehun wakes at 2 am, restless for no reason. The lights in his room are still on. He’d dozed off shortly after the phone call ended, and by the time he gets up to put the lights off, any semblance of sleep has left him. </p><p> </p><p>He huffs, standing in the middle of the room, till his eyes fall on his backpack. He catches himself wondering what he’d find if he opened the next letter right now. </p><p> </p><p>Well, might as well make it a ritual. Otherwise, Sehun will never get through them. There’s probably only one thing worse than reading them, and that’s carrying them around for the rest of his life. </p><p> </p><p>He marches over to his backpack, and snatches out the letter on top. His room is connected to a little balcony, and he makes his way out to the little deck as angrily as possible. He doesn’t know why he has to be angry about this. He just does. </p><p> </p><p>That is, until the little balcony light flickers on, and he reads the date on the envelope. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun stumbles into the plastic chair on the deck, ignoring the twigs on it, anger leaving him entirely, replaced by an odd, boneless feeling. </p><p> </p><p>He should throw this one off the balcony. He really should, because he knows what happened the day before it was written, simultaneously remembers all of it and none of it. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> “Sorry about the car,” he mumbles to a distraught Chanyeol, arm wrapped around an equally distraught Jongin, as a nurse quietly cleans the gash on his cheek. It hurts to speak, but he does it anyway.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fuck,” Chanyeol says quietly, and Sehun knows he’s trying not to cry. “Fuck, Sehun, we’re just- just glad you’re still-”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I didn’t think it would crash as bad as it did,” Sehun attempts half heartedly. He doesn’t even know if he’s lying.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Time stretches, and Sehun stares blankly in the distance as Jongin and the nurse talk in hushed tones. Chanyeol is on the phone, seemingly trying to reign in his emotions as he softly explains something to whoever is on the other end.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> It doesn’t take long before they’re leading him to the psych ward. Sehun doesn’t know how long he’s going to be in here; he’d heard Jongin mumble something about a couple of weeks or a month of full time observation, depending on how he does, but he can’t be sure. He can’t bring himself to protest, can’t bring himself to say he didn’t </em> really <em> want to hit the wall, that he’ll be fine if they just increase his therapy hours somehow or change his meds a bit, because he isn’t sure he means it.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He’s in his new bed soon enough, staring at his Vans in the corner of the room, sans shoelaces. A different nurse than the one from before bustles in a minute, or maybe an hour later. She brings medication and pity with her, and Sehun quietly curls in on himself. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you need anything else?”, she asks, and Sehun wants to shake his head quietly, but suddenly his cheeks are damp, and he’s crying.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Can I,” he can hear himself sob. “Can I make a phone call? Please, just- I just want to make one call.”   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She stares at him for a second, and Sehun balls his hands up in fists, not wanting to cry more than he already is.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Of course,” she says gently, and Sehun tries not to think about how much this stay of his is costing his friends as she helps him out of bed and leads him down a hallway, how much overtime Chanyeol will work at the shop and how many extra pieces Jongin will force himself to write and how many dinners Zitao will skip.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao. God, Zitao, who he hasn’t even talked to for months and whose fucking number he’s dialling through tears on this stupid phone.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Come get me,” he wants to sob into the phone as it rings, desperate. Come get me from this hospital with its too clean smell and white walls and fluorescent lighting. Come get me from today morning when I was getting the car out. Come get me from yesterday and everyday before that.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He wants Zitao to come and wrap him up and tuck him in the backseat of the car that he totaled and take him somewhere that isn’t here.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When Zitao picks up the phone though, Sehun freezes up, the receiver shaking in his hand.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hello?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun can’t help but sob at that, at hearing Zitao’s voice after so long. One long sob, the kind that turns your insides around, before rushing to put the phone down.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He trembles the whole night after that, numb and alone.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao sounded tired, sad even. He probably knows what Sehun has done by now, and the thought haunts him as Sehun tries to go to sleep. He didn’t think he’d feel regret like this.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The next morning goes the way he thought it would. They give him breakfast and water and fresh clothes, and he has a session with a well meaning doctor who’s probably spent the last few hours emailing his therapist, and tries to explain that he didn’t really mean for the crash to be that bad but he didn’t particularly mind that it was either.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s mid-afternoon when they lead him to the room, gently telling him he has a visitor. He’s expecting to see Chanyeol with snacks, or Jongin checking up on him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Instead, he’s greeted with Zitao in the leather jacket Sehun bought him for his birthday last year, eyes sunken like he hasn’t slept, looking more terrified than Sehun has ever seen him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun opens his mouth, and then closes it. There is nothing to say right now.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They stare at each other for a second, and then Sehun is stumbling forward, till his arms hook over Zitao’s shoulders. Zitao is steady as always with how he holds Sehun, but then Sehun notices how Zitao is slightly shaking, how he’s holding him up like he is fluid, like if Zitao doesn’t press his fingers together and use them to pull Sehun as close into him as possible, Sehun will melt away into the floorboards.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun tries not to cry. There are only so many puddles the both of them can take.  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Sehun finds himself staring at a stranger’s hand gripping the envelope with Zitao’s careful chicken scratch writing on it. He knows in theory that it’s supposed to be his hand, but he can’t bring himself to recognise it. </p><p> </p><p>Zitao had held him like that for what felt like hours, until the nurses quietly informed them that the visit time had elapsed, and pried Sehun away. Sehun didn’t make eye contact when he shuffled back, and didn’t say a single word. </p><p> </p><p>He wishes he had. </p><p> </p><p>It takes another minute or ten until he recognises his hands again. He doesn’t know if he can read this. </p><p> </p><p>Zitao must’ve been angry, right? He had to have been. To spend so much time taking care of Sehun, staying up with him till 4 am, holding his hand whenever he could, only for Sehun to fall apart the second he wasn’t around. </p><p> </p><p>Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounds an awful lot like Chanyeol’s reminds him that he isn’t an investment, or an asset for anyone to collect on. He’s their friend. </p><p> </p><p>That steels him a little, and with trembling fingers, he opens the envelope. </p><p> </p><p>The paper the letter is written on is the kind Sehun recognises. It’s from Jongin’s memo pad that he keeps on the kitchen table for grocery lists and miscellaneous stuff like that.</p><p> </p><p>He takes a breath. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t even know what to say.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun tries not to note the absence of the traditional <em> “Hun-ah”, </em>and instead pays attention to the absence of air in his lungs. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fuck, I’m just… I’m so sorry.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Oh. </p><p> </p><p>For a second, Sehun is surprised. Then, he’s surprised that he’s surprised, because deep down under the “oh-fuck-he-hates-me” he always knew this is what Zitao would say. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> God, Hun-ah, if I knew this would mess with you so much, I would’ve found another way. I just… I don’t know, I don’t think there’s any other way we could’ve kept going without this job.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The job was never the problem, but he never told Zitao that, and Zitao isn’t a fucking mind reader, so Sehun keeps his scoff to himself.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Chanyeol told me that you said that you didn’t mean for it to be as bad as it was. That you just wanted to make it hurt and couldn’t bring yourself to stop when it spiralled.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Are you okay now? Have you eaten well? Have you slept?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You didn’t say anything to me, Hun-ah. I was standing there and holding you and you didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I have so many things to ask you and yet when I saw you I couldn’t do anything but hold you. I hope you know what I meant.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun did.</p><p> </p><p><em> I tried not to cry, I swear, but holy shit Sehun, I </em> miss <em> you. So much, and you’re struggling and I almost lost you, and I think you called me when I was driving over and I couldn’t stop thinking about the way you sobbed into the phone. I tried to keep it quiet. I hope you didn’t notice.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He mentally rewinds, tries to see if he’d noticed it, if he realised that Zitao was in tears as he held him. It seems like he didn’t. Sehun wonders what else Zitao has hidden from him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t… I don’t know how to make it better. The three of us talked to your therapist, and I asked if I should come back, and he told me that it’s better if I didn’t. He wants me to give you time. There’s not much else I can do. I think you know everything I can tell you, but I want to say it anyway.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I wish I could ask you what you wanted me to do; I know you would tell me normally, but right now, I don’t know if you want to tell me anything. That’s okay. If that’s what you need and want, it’s okay.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If you need me to hold you like I did today, I’ll be there. It’ll take me approximately sixteen hours of non-stop driving, but I’ll be there. I swear I will.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You need to take care of yourself for me, Hun-ah. I don’t ask for anything else because I don’t need anything else. I need you though, safe and okay, even if I don’t get to have you near me. I need you to take your meds and keep going to therapy and stay away from cars for a bit for me.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>If Sehun was crying right now, he wouldn’t know. There’s no way he’s going to be able to drive in the morning. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re monumentally loved. I know you know this, but a reminder right now wouldn’t hurt. By Jongin, by Chanyeol, by almost everyone who gets to know you. And even if all that seems far away and hazy and you can’t get a grip on it then here’s me telling you. I love you. I wrote this down for you who knows how long ago when and if you’re reading this, but I can tell you right now that I love you. In this moment, as you read this. I’m sitting somewhere right now, and I’m spending all of my time loving you.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I know… I know that you’re upset with me. I wish the move hadn’t been as sudden. I wish I talked it out with you. I wish for many things. But I just need you to know that above all I love you. And I have endless patience and understanding for you. It’s okay if you never forgive me because I will always hold these things for you.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’ll have endless love to go with them too. Please hold yourself gently for me. I wish I could say this all in person, but this will have to do, whenever you read it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I miss you dearly. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>His hands have never felt more useless in his life, unable to reach for Zitao’s, soft for no one but the letter he holds shakily. Sehun has goosebumps and he is shivering, and he is deeply loved. </p><p> </p><p>The deep knot of sadness inside him isn’t something that can be dissolved with being surrounded by love and being told that he’s important to people; if that had been the case, Sehun wouldn’t need therapy or meds, he is loved enough. It doesn’t dissolve, but it still helps. Instead of sawing it in half, there’s a careful untangling going on, one Sehun can barely notice, but every time he checks back in, things are a little lighter. </p><p> </p><p>Zitao needs him. Sehun knows this, has known this since six months into their friendship when Zitao had cried while wiping Sehun’s tears after a particularly harrowing mental breakdown. </p><p> </p><p>In fact, Sehun knows how much all three of the most important people in his life need him. The difficulty comes in remembering. </p><p> </p><p>Somehow, as with everything, as it always is, Zitao makes it easier.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Um, babe,” Jongin says, carefully, as he watches Chanyeol staring at the plates of breakfast in front of him, as if he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with them. “You’ve made four servings.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Chanyeol says quietly, not breaking eye contact with the eggs and their ketchup smiley faces.</p><p> </p><p>Jongin doesn’t know how to react, break the silence. After all, there’s only so much you can say about missing your friends. </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol does it for him, laying his hands flat on the kitchen counter and laughing softly. </p><p> </p><p>“What is it that Zitao calls it? Muscle memory?” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin fidgets a bit, smiling carefully as he thinks of Zitao chucking the TV remote in the trash can, and then mumbling something about muscle memory and wincing while fishing the remote out. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he affirms. “Don’t think Zitao ever used it to describe anything productive though.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol’s eyes look sad, but his smile isn’t any less genuine. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” he says, as Jongin gravitates closer. “I guess the heart is a muscle too.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin hums, hand reaching out to rest on Chanyeol’s wrist. They stare at each other, and reach the conclusion that they will speak no more of this, and will eat extra breakfast today. </p><p> </p><p>“I guess it is.” </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m perpetually filled with guilt and fear, I think,” Sehun confesses, lying in Zitao’s bed, staring at him from a few inches away.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “And why’s that?”, Zitao asks. It’s late, but Zitao doesn’t need to go into the shop tomorrow, so they can stay like this. These are Sehun’s favourite nights, where he can take up space in Zitao’s life and not have it shove other things out of the way.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Well, I mean, the guilt is pretty self explanatory, I think. I don’t work. I don’t go to school. I’ve been living my whole adult life because I have friends who love me and are willing to support me, and I’m still not…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun trails off, trying to figure out what to say and how to say it. Zitao waits patiently. Always does.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I just, there’s never going to be a day where I can look at Jongin or Chanyeol or you, and be like, ‘Thank you, I am now happy and functional, and am going to repay you for everything you’ve done to take care of me.’ I can never turn to you and say, hey, it’s okay, this time I’ll take care of us. Because it’s been so long since Jongin took me in, so long since Chanyeol and you came along. I’ve been loved for so long, and I’m still… like this. I still exist like this, and I shut you guys off for days even though you feed me and love me and pay for my therapy. Some days I want to get up and leave, because otherwise the guilt will crush me.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I mean,” Sehun continues, only speaking for so long because it’s Zitao and it’s nighttime and they’re in bed. “I have good days and good weeks and even good months now, and it’s because of you guys, but I’m also in my mid 20s and don’t have a degree or a job. I let go of ambition in middle school, but now it’s more of a please-just-let-me-give-my-friends-a-quarter-of-what-they’ve-given-me-please, you know? The most I can do for you is be happy, and I fail at that too.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao reaches over and puts his hand on Sehun’s forearm, and instantly Sehun feels real, present. Zitao knows this tendency of his, to get lost in himself and forget about his body, and Sehun always notices him keeping it in check.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I think,” Zitao starts. “That love isn’t a transaction. And I also think that you know this. You want to give back to us because you love us, not because you think we’re waiting to like… collect on you like investment bankers or something. At least, I hope so.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It is very hard to think of things to say at times like this. Sehun is glad that Zitao tries.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You know,” Zitao tries, as he always does. “I’ve always said that no matter what, you need to pick yourself up and just do it. And I think that’s often misconstrued to mean that no matter what you should just get up and get a job or study or run into the woods and shed everything earthly about yourself.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That last one does sound appealing.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “And, I mean, sometimes, it does mean that. But other times, it really means just do it in the most basic sense of the word. Just stay alive. Just wake up and drink water. Just get yourself to talk and laugh with your friends and let them love you.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I could’ve been a doctor,” Sehun confesses softly, mulling over Zitao’s words. “Or a dancer. A journalist maybe. Had a steady job. I could’ve pitched in during take out night. So much was taken from me by virtue of me being inescapably numb and unyieldingly cold and then I got stuck in this cycle of regret and that just sort of pushed me further.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I know,” Zitao says. “You are incredibly smart and brave and lovely. There are many things that live in you that didn’t get the light they needed when they needed it, and I know the urge is to think that they’ve gone rotten inside, but the truth is, they’re just hibernating. And you won’t know how they were meant to be until you just do it. Right now, just doing it means staying alive for me and our friends, and waking up tomorrow and helping me make breakfast and letting me pull you into an improvised dance while you’re pouring the juice. Someday though, just doing it will mean something different, and I need you to know that no matter what it does, I will be there with you. I will help you figure out how to do things at your new job, or I will help you take notes from your textbooks, or I will come with you to the woods and hold your hand while you scream so you remember where you come from.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh god,” Sehun whispers out, quiet, resisting the urge to turn away from Zitao. “God, Zitao, you say all of that, and I love you so much, but that’s where the fear comes in. Because through all of this- every day, you- you and Chanyeol and Jongin, you all love me and care for me because you remember this version of me. You know it, and it’s- it’s an easy groove to fall into. And just- what happens when you realise you don’t like the things I do anymore? That I’m too much to take care of, that I’ve done nothing except for maybe helped with chores occasionally? Or- or worse still, what if you wake up one day and I’m not the same person you love and you don’t have the strength to learn to love me again?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao has been looking at him like he always looks at him, gentle, in a way that makes Sehun feel like everything he says is being tucked away in some special corner of Zitao’s mind. They’re quiet for a while, and Zitao’s hand moves from Sehun’s forearm to his face.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I can’t promise you anything,” Zitao says, quietly. “That would just be stupid.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun snorts, and leans into Zitao’s hand expectantly. He wants to hear what Zitao has to say.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “But… loving this version of you, right now, is something this version of me and this version of Chanyeol and Jongin choose to do. On purpose. And yeah, it’s easy for us, because we’ve been doing it for a while, and it’s all about old patterns and memories, but we’re still choosing to keep going with it. Sure, maybe in the future, a version of me will realise that a version of you doesn’t need me anymore, but it’s more possible that that won’t happen. We’re all going to change, but more likely than not, we’ll do it together. And if we don’t, it’ll be for a reason.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hand coming up to rest over Zitao’s on his face so that he knows Sehun will remember what he said, Sehun laughs.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You should write a book,” he says. “Give it one of those really dumb titles. ‘Loving is Muscle Memory, Even When it Isn’t’ or some bullshit like that.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao looks at Sehun, completely serious.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “If loving you is muscle memory,” he says, soft and quiet, and Sehun doesn’t even know if he should be allowed to hear this. “My heart is the strongest muscle I have.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun wakes up thinking of that night, alone and clammy in his hotel room. Checking the time tells him he’s probably missed breakfast. That’s okay. He isn’t that hungry anyways. </p><p> </p><p>They’d talked more after that, made plans for the next day, of Sehun coming down to the shop with Zitao and Chanyeol. Zitao had whispered to him in the dark about something sappy and Sehun had waited like he always does, for Zitao to cross the line from sappy to confessional, for Zitao to lean in, but like always, Zitao didn’t, and so it was up to Sehun to whine about how unbelievably dumb he was and how Sehun was going to sabotage the car he was working on. </p><p> </p><p>Sabotage. Sehun’s familiar with that. </p><p> </p><p>Self-sabotage comes in many forms. Sehun’s default tends to be stubbornness, this raging insistence on wanting things to be a certain way, and shutting down if they aren’t. It’s another one of those glass screen situations, where he isn’t fully in control of himself, and all it does is make him angry. </p><p> </p><p>He’s been stubborn about this for as long as he can remember. He won’t cross the line before Zitao does. </p><p> </p><p>But oh god, anger gets tiring. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun sighs as he sits up. He won’t be checking out today, he reckons, not after yesterday. Not yet wanting to freshen up for the day, he reaches for the TV remote on the nightstand.</p><p> </p><p>The TV flickers on, and Sehun instantly recognizes the animated robots on the screen.</p><p> </p><p>Out of everything it could’ve been, it’s fucking WallE. </p><p> </p><p>He tries to change the channel to no avail, because the universe hates him and this TV is evil and decided to stop interpreting infrared signals even though it was doing so just <em> fine </em>a minute ago. </p><p> </p><p>Trying not to scream in a way that would make people think he’s being murdered, Sehun resigns himself to watching the stupid fucking trash can robot discover a plant.</p><p> </p><p>Fucking robots in love.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Look at what you’ve done,” Sehun tuts, completely deadpan, as Zitao full on sobs into his chest. “Look at this poor man.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I just wanted to watch WallE!”, Chanyeol sputters, horror on his face as Zitao’s sobs somehow grow louder. “Zitao said he’d never watched it and I- I thought it’d be fun!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Clearly not,” Zitao sob-mumbles from where he has become part of Sehun’s T-shirt. “Clearly </em>not.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Don’t be mean to Chanyeol,” Jongin says half-heartedly from the other end of the couch, unintelligible because he’s speaking with popcorn in his mouth. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun ignores him, opting instead to pet Zitao’s hair comfortingly. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you want to talk about it?”, he asks gently, giving Chanyeol a very not gentle glare.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “They’re in love!”, Zitao wails, emerging from Sehun’s shirt. “The robots! In love! Like, feelings and stuff!”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh god,” Chanyeol whispers. “I broke him.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I think the movie did that, babe,” Jongin says helpfully. “Though, it was your idea to watch,” he adds, unhelpfully. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “We need to get our roomba a friend,” Zitao continues, tear tracks running down his face as Sehun calmingly runs his hands through his hair. “Oh my god,” he squeaks, as if a realization is coming over him. “Our roomba doesn’t even have a name.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun knows a spiral when he sees one. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Okay, Zitao-breaker,” he says to a very apologetic looking Chanyeol. “Help me get your emotional best friend to my room. We’ve lost him for the night.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If Jongin wiggles his eyebrows at that, Sehun pretends he can’t see. It’s easy to do. He’s warm and flushed with a soft sense of happiness.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This time, even if it’s just because of cartoon robots, Sehun can take care of Zitao. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think…” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin looks up from the kitchen where he’s cutting an apple into even slices. Chanyeol avoids his gaze from the couch. </p><p> </p><p>“Do I think what?” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol puts his head on the back of the couch, looking at Jongin like a golden retriever who’s been terribly wronged. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you think he’s different now?”, he asks, quietly. Jongin slices a little more hurriedly. “After being away, I mean.” </p><p> </p><p>“Which one?”, Jongin asks, ghost of a smile on his face, as the last piece of the apple clatters onto the plate. It’s funny how Zitao and Sehun manage to find themselves wrapped in each other even at a time like this. </p><p> </p><p>“Either. Both.” </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” he huffs, as he crosses over from the kitchen into the living room, plate with apple slices in hand. “If I’m being honest? I don’t know.” </p><p> </p><p>He settles in Chanyeol’s lap, smiling as Chanyeol’s arms encircle him. </p><p> </p><p>“Zitao… he sounds the same when we talk, doesn’t he?”</p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol nods.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
“A little more tired, though,” he says, and Jongin nods. “Wistful, even.” </p><p> </p><p>“Here,” Jongin says, lifting an apple slice to Chanyeol’s lips. “Get some fruit in you.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol takes it eagerly, giving Jongin’s fingers a hint of a kiss as he swallows. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s to be expected though,” Jongin continues as Chanyeol chews. “You know how he is with Sehun.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sehun sounds different.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin can’t bring himself to disagree with Chanyeol’s quiet mumble. He’s right. Sehun <em> does </em> sound different. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p> </p><p>They sit in silence for a while, and Jongin feeds Chanyeol an apple slice. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay though,” Jongin says after a while. “It’s okay if he changes. We’ll learn to change with him.”</p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol looks at him, and there’s stars in his eyes and a stray bit of apple on his upper lip. </p><p> </p><p>“I love you.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin replies with another apple slice.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think that love exists?”</p><p> </p><p>The question comes from the tall man smoking next to Sehun. Yifan, he thinks his name is. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun finds himself in this situation somehow, shortly after lunch. He’d come out to the back of the Holiday Inn to watch the rain, only to be offered a cigarette and a name. He took it. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Sehun replies instantly. As if it’s obvious. “Always.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why?”, Yifan asks, and his voice is heavy, like he’s about to start crying. Sehun really hopes he doesn’t, he’d have <em> no </em>idea how to deal with that. </p><p> </p><p>As he thinks about how to best answer that question, he watches as Yifan fiddles with what looks like a keychain. Is that a bunny on it? </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Sehun starts, tearing his eyes away from the very out of character bunny keychain. “This one time, I was really, really sick. Like, 102 degree fever, almost hallucinating type sick.”</p><p> </p><p>Yifan nods at him to go on. </p><p> </p><p>“It was the middle of the night- a cold one, mind you- and one of my friends, Jongin, he was putting that weird little cold compress thing on my forehead, trying to get my fever down, while my other friends were looking for paracetamol and stuff. We finally figured out that there wasn’t any in the house, and so Zitao-” </p><p> </p><p>Sehun takes a second, wondering if he should attempt to explain his and Zitao’s relationship. He decides not to. </p><p> </p><p>“Zitao said that he’ll drive down to the store to get some meds and stuff, while Chanyeol and Jongin tried to bring my fever down. And- and for some reason, in my fever-addled brain, I decided that going outside was the most dangerous thing he could do at that moment. Like, I genuinely believed that if he went out he wouldn’t come back.”</p><p> </p><p>“So I kept telling all three of them I was fine, and all three of them could clearly tell that I was not fine, and no one listened to me. Zitao went off to get meds, even though I yelled at him to not, asked him why he was doing this, almost like I was accusing him of something. And the ice water on my forehead, it- it started to hurt. Because it was just so cold, you know? I was in a lot of pain, and I just wanted everyone to let me go to sleep, but Zitao was out risking his life- in my head, at least- and Jongin and Chanyeol were trying to get my fever down.” </p><p> </p><p>Sehun smiles, putting out his only quarter smoked cigarette, as he continues. </p><p> </p><p>“Jongin has this really cold cloth over my forehead, right?”, he explains, demonstrating with his hands. “I’m crying about it, because it hurts, and so Chanyeol comes over, and he takes both my hands in his, and tells me to squeeze as hard as I can. I swear I crushed his fingers, but he never even squeaked.” </p><p> </p><p>Yifan is smiling now too, hand still tightly gripping the keychain. He nods, as if telling Sehun to go on, to finish the story. </p><p> </p><p>“Zitao came back not even five minutes later,” he says softly. “He barrelled in, and he was sweaty because he’d run all the way, and without a word, took one of my hands from Chanyeol. Jongin stopped in a few minutes with the compress and gave me my meds, and I was half asleep when I heard Zitao.” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There’s a hand in his sweaty hair. Sehun struggles to open his eyes and fails.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “We love you. That’s why we do this.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They steep in that for a second, like they’re little teabags and the rain is going to make them finally have purpose. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s a nice story,” Yifan hums. </p><p> </p><p>“It is, isn’t it?”, Sehun replies, staring again at the keychain. </p><p> </p><p>Silence takes over for another few minutes. Then,</p><p> </p><p>“You should tell them,” he blurts out.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” </p><p> </p><p>“Whoever it is you’re missing right now,” Sehun explains, colouring. He doesn’t know why he’s still talking. “You should tell them you love them.” </p><p> </p><p>Yifan looks at him, looking a little pained for a second, before he smiles sadly. </p><p> </p><p>“I think he should already know that by now,” Yifan says. “I don’t think what’s happened can be fixed with telling him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Sehun says softly. “You have no idea how much people want to hear things. Get concrete confirmation. Guessing is only fun for a while.” </p><p> </p><p>Yifan doesn’t say anything, looking at his hands. Sehun taps his fingers nervously against the railing. </p><p> </p><p>“If he already knows,” he says, quietly, as the rain eases up. “Remind him.” </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “If you make me do another scale,” Sehun huffs, squeezing onto the bench near Zitao. “I’ll kill you.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao smiles at him, hands absently flying (as they often do) to the battered keyboard in front of them. Sehun watches as he starts playing a slow melody. He can almost place it, but it doesn’t fully click that it’s Don’t Stop Me Now by Queen until Zitao speeds up.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Show off,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling. Zitao is always lit up when they’re around the keyboard.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Maybe so,” Zitao agrees, cutting his playing off halfway to launch into a muted version of some piano piece Sehun has never heard of, probably. “You think I’m cool though.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Ha! You wish.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You think I’m the coolest,” Zitao presses on. “Don’t- Hun-ah, come on, don’t shake your head at me like that, I know you think I’m cool.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He takes his hands off the keyboard. Sehun sticks his tongue out at him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You want to play anything specific?”, Zitao asks, and the way his voice softens stabs Sehun through the chest.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He doesn’t trust himself to speak right now, a little overwhelmed, so he places his hands the way Zitao taught him to, for this piece by this French guy named Satie, Gym-something.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun loves this piece. With all his heart. On bad days, he sometimes asks Zitao to play it for him. If anyone ever asks why, he tells them it reminds him of the ocean.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And it does, with the way the notes rise and fall over chords that Sehun can hit pretty easily. He’s still a little shaky, not even close to how fluid Zitao is with this piece, but it doesn’t matter.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun tries to hit the first few notes properly, even though he knows Zitao’s eyes are trained on his hands. He misses one, slightly nervous, but keeps going. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He gets into the flow relatively quick, struggling a little with the chord changes, but managing.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The melody’s about to change, and then, Zitao’s hands are covering his own. Sehun allows himself a little gasp, and later, they’ll both pretend nothing happened.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao’s hands are only slightly bigger than his, but they’re a lot more fluid, leading Sehun to lift and press in a calculated manner.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “For your chords,” Zitao hums out, voice low, as they play together. “Center yourself around the F sharp. You’re gonna keep coming back there, so…”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao trails off, and Sehun pays extra attention to how Zitao is centering his hands. Tries to, at least. Zitao’s hands are very warm, and this piece reminds him of the ocean.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This piece reminds him of Zitao. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a wonderful person, Sehun,” Junmyeon announces, for what seems to be the sixth time this evening.</p><p> </p><p>His mashed potatoes have been undisturbed since declaration number 4; he is here at Yifan and Junmyeon’s request, something about saving their relationship or whatever, but it’s obvious that neither of them wants him here. At least not anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Sehun tries not to let his eyes linger too long at the fact that they’re holding hands, unable to part even while they eat together. It reminds him of Chanyeol and Jongin at the dinner table, finding their hands tangled in each other while simply handing each other ketchup.</p><p> </p><p>Apparently, Yifan had taken Sehun up on his advice, and had declared his love through Junmyeon's closed hotel room door. Sehun is glad he isn’t on the same floor as them. That could get tiring, very fast. </p><p> </p><p>They are grateful, yes, in a way that you can only be grateful to a stranger. They want him to eat with them but they don’t know how to take it further. Sehun decides to make it easier for them. </p><p> </p><p>“I just realized,” he says, soft under the chatter of the Holiday Inn. “I’ve left something in my room. It’s important to me that I have it, is it okay if I excuse myself?”</p><p> </p><p>Junmyeon nods, and says that he hopes they can talk again soon, and that Sehun is interesting and wonderful, and also a stranger, and Yifan just waves at him, a lot less wordy. </p><p> </p><p>Traversing hotel corridors, he ends up in his room, staring at the freshly made bed, and wonders what it could be that he was missing so much that he couldn’t sit there anymore. </p><p> </p><p>He sits at the edge of his bed, fingers itching and strangely light. Something about today has him feeling like he’s floating around. </p><p> </p><p>He catches sight of his backpack lying on the armchair, stuff messily slipping out after he’d snatched the last letter the previous night. A pink envelope is on the floor, forlorn. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun picks it up; it is, as he suspected, the fourth one. This one feels different, oddly firm and thin in a way the others weren’t. Curious, he opens it, though he doesn’t really want to confront anything right now. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t have to worry about that, it turns out. The envelope holds a postcard, which makes Sehun pause (because seriously, Zitao, who the fuck puts a postcard in an envelope). The image on the postcard makes him draw in a little breath; it’s the sea, blue and brilliant and Sehun is in love with it. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun turns it over, carefully, and finds three words, painstakingly written in a way that he recognises as Zitao trying to be neat. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thinking of you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun doesn’t know if he’s angry at Zitao anymore; the past few letters haven’t been eliciting the violence the first one had, and this one makes him feel a little empty inside, a little lonely. He has a phone by the bedside table, and Zitao’s phone number memorised. </p><p> </p><p>He can’t, though. If he focuses long enough, the burning is still there. He is still on fire. It’s just barely angry anymore. Melancholy, more than anything. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t burn as bright, but it sure as hell hurts more. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Jongin walks out to the bedroom after taking his shower to find Chanyeol half-lying on the bed, hanging upside down off the bed as he talks on the phone. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, guess who just walked in,” Chanyeol says. He moves the phone from his ear. “Zitao wants me to tell you that he blew up the kitchen trying to make your sponge cake recipe.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin pauses, hands frozen mid towel drying his hair. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, first question, how the fuck? Second question, why the sudden baking interest?” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol relays the questions to Zitao, and then listens attentively. </p><p> </p><p>“He says something about the oven settings, and also, he’s trying to distract himself.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah.” </p><p> </p><p>It quiets for a second, before Jongin decides he could use a distraction of his own. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to make sponge cake today, actually,” he announces, and he can almost hear Zitao whining about being left out through the phone. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, quit whining,” he says, and Chanyeol dutifully lets Zitao know that he should stop being a baby. </p><p> </p><p>Jongin watches as Chanyeol’s eyes soften when Zitao speaks again, raising his eyebrows when Chanyeol catches his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“He says it’s hard when he misses us so much,” Chanyeol says quietly, and Jongin deflates. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Jongin mumbles. “We miss him too.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol sits up, almost falling off the bed in the process, but saving himself at the last second. </p><p> </p><p>“Zitao says he knows,” Chanyeol tells him, and Jongin smiles. </p><p> </p><p>“We’ll try to find you another distraction,” Chanyeol says into the phone. “I’ll try googling it or something. God knows we could all use one right now.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin thinks of Sehun on the road right now, weighed down and alone, and he has to agree. Sometimes, they just need a distraction from being powerless.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>On the smooth gilded top of the piano lies a postcard, waves crashing on a beach on the shiny card. </p><p> </p><p>No one bats an eye as Sehun starts to play. This is a Holiday Inn, and it is filled with many busy, busy people, and no one has enough time to notice how Sehun is centering himself around the F sharp. </p><p> </p><p>No one sits by him on the bench, no one guides his hands, but Sehun still plays, alone, unbidden. Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches Yifan and Junmyeon smiling at him, linked by their pinkies, and Sehun smiles back, as best as he can.</p><p> </p><p>No one can hear it, but Sehun plays about the ocean. </p><p> </p><p>He plays about Zitao.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hello.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You got kicked out too?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao smiles back at him sheepishly, nodding in feigned shame as he sits on the steps of the restaurant attached to their rooms. Waves crash on the shore as Sehun takes in Zitao’s profile. Things are more colorful here, Zitao excessively so.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you think they’re, uh… fighting or fucking?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao snorts, seemingly taken off guard. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “They were arguing when I left, but it could devolve pretty quick.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you suggesting they’re going to have hate sex over a pizza order?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Chanyeol had ordered a pizza with olives, Jongin is not the biggest fan of olives, and things evolved from there. Sehun doesn’t get the whole thing, because number one, who orders pizza on the beach? And number two, anything that gets him ushered out of his beachside shack with urges to “get some fresh air” (and also gets Zitao pelted with a TV remote, as he would soon learn), simply cannot be logical. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Sehun,” Zitao says, turning to him, completely serious. “I care for you and I value your opinion, but please never say anything ever again.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun laughs, tipping his head back, and the sunset is splayed over his skin. He can feel Zitao looking, so he smiles a bit, playful.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao’s hand covers his, gentle. Sehun opens his eyes questioningly, and then Zitao’s tugging them both to their feet.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Come with me.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fifteen minutes later, Sehun is hidden away in a cove, huddled up on the small patch of dry rock near Zitao. It gives them a perfect view of the sunset, and Sehun feels content. Happy.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I want to wear a sarong,” Sehun confesses, unprompted. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun shifts, uncomfortable, but gravitating towards Zitao anyways.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I like- like flowy fabric. I- um, I always wanted to wear a dress, or a skirt, or something like that, just to see how it feels. Never did because I was scared I’d get kicked out.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He laughs, bitter. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Got kicked out anyway. And now, I don’t know. I feel like if I told Jongin he’d go and buy me three dresses with accessories from his commissions, but this is- I don’t know, this is something I’ll have to keep inside myself? I don’t know why. I could- I could do it now, but…”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If Zitao notices that Sehun seems to be including Zitao in his inner world, he says nothing about it. Instead, he puts a steady arm around Sehun, and listens, and when Sehun doesn’t say anything, he starts to hum. Some 80s pop song, Sehun’s sure, but the sun is setting and Zitao has his arm around him, so Sehun’s not going to complain about the music choice. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He’s not going to complain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“You want pizza for dinner?”, Chanyeol asks, almost yelling to make sure Jongin can hear him in the laundry room.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Sure! </em> ”, Jongin yells back, a <em> lot </em> louder than necessary. “ <em> No olives though!” </em></p><p> </p><p>Usually, Sehun would be the one doing the ordering, because he likes the little animation that plays when the order goes through. Maybe that’s why Chanyeol forgets to uncheck the little box for olives. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Sehun’s been driving since morning, and it’s almost night now. He’s been distracted all day, and he swears he left something in that Holiday Inn, but he just can’t put his finger on what it is. </p><p> </p><p>He’s not been paying attention to the road; not in the “this will cause a car accident” way, but in the “I don’t know where I am but everything is still vaguely familiar” way. </p><p> </p><p>Before he can dwell on how familiar things <em> really </em> are, he’s overcome with the urge to stop. It seems like there’s a place where a bunch of cars are parked up ahead, overlooking a path down to what looks like a few flimsy buildings. Eyes blurry, Sehun decides to park there, and hopes that some of those buildings are places to stay the night.</p><p> </p><p>Plans in his head, Sehun emerges from the car, and then everything falls apart. The smell hits him first, and then the sound, and he has to lean against the car as he tries not to double over as he realises where he is. </p><p> </p><p>The sea is beautiful in the growing moonlight.</p><p> </p><p>They’d come here once, a few years ago, a week long stay with money they had cobbled together from what they had leftover. Their financial situation then was less precarious then than it had been a few months ago. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun tears up, happy tears, sad tears, who the fuck knows. This visit had been a turning point for him, one from absolutely horrible to just normal bad, and it’s inextricably linked to Zitao, and as if Sehun hasn’t felt it enough on this stupid impromptu road trip that wasn’t even supposed to <em> be </em>about Zitao, he misses him. Sehun is on fire and there is so much water around him but Zitao isn’t there to coax him in, and it burns. </p><p> </p><p>He somehow manages to stumble down the path with his stuff, making his way over to the restaurant/shack situation they’d stayed at through copious amounts of sand, and if he dwells too much on anything he’s going to explode, so he doesn’t. He stops by the bar, which also seems to function as the front desk. </p><p> </p><p>“I need a room,” he announces to the bartender, who just gives him an affirmatory nod. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun settles on the nearest barstool, and takes a second to look around. The stairs he’d hobbled up to get inside lead out to the beach directly, as the sand in his shoes confirm. The restaurant area is pretty, lit up with warm yellow lighting, and there are a few people still milling around, talking and drinking. It’s undoubtedly beautiful. Sehun isn’t fazed by the fact that the bartender doesn’t seem in any hurry to alert anyone of his need for a room; he remembers how it was like the first time they all came here, and a little bit of waiting is to be expected. </p><p> </p><p>He puts his faces in his hands, elbows resting against the counter. </p><p> </p><p>“And a drink,” he decides. “I need a drink.” </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao locks the door to their room in the shack, and throws a package on the bed.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Quick,” he says. “We’ve got a half hour or so before they get back.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s the second-to-last day of their beach holiday, and the room they share looks like they’ve been living there forever. Chanyeol and Jongin are off somewhere in the nearest town, something about an evening coffee date.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What’s going on?”, Sehun asks, reaching over to grab the package from where he’s been propped up by three pillows (two of his own and one stolen from Zitao) as he played Subway Surfers. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Open it,” Zitao says, watching Sehun intently. “I’ve made plans for us tonight.”   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun dips his nail under the flap of the wrapping paper, ripping it open, and shuffling the item out. It’s soft, fabric of some sort- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s a sarong, made of pretty blue fabric with wave patterns on it. Sehun runs his fingers across them, before looking up. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I, uh, I thought you could wear this today if you wanted. I don’t know if you know how to wrap one? If you don’t, I asked the old lady at the shop to teach me and I don’t know if I’ll do the best job but I can try?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun stares at Zitao, who’s been fidgeting as he speaks, and he doesn’t know what to say.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ve- uh, I’ve told Jongin and Chanyeol we’ll be busy tonight,” Zitao continues. “I thought we could go down to the next beach over? That way you can… I don’t know, you can wear that and enjoy yourself and it’ll… it’ll just be me. Just me. Yeah.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He finds himself clambering off the bed to make his way over to Zitao, to put his hands on Zitao’s shoulders and then pull him in for a hug. Zitao is warm, firm. Holding Sehun.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You’re a star,” he says, muffled in Zitao’s shoulder. He pulls back, so that they’re staring at each other now. “I definitely know how to drape a sarong. I’d like to see you wear one though.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao’s eyes get a faraway look in them, as if experiencing war flashbacks.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Please no,” he says, but he’s smiling, unable to hold it in. “I almost tripped on that thing six different times.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Of course you did,” Sehun laughs, “We’ll get you a miniskirt. You won’t trip in that.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Sounds- uh, sounds fun.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They stare at each other in silence, until Sehun tilts his head.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you going to leave? To let me change and stuff-” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh, yeah, yeah, definitely, sure, sorry, I’m just- yep, I’m out the door.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun smiles, endeared, watching as Zitao knocks his head against the door, and then eventually shuts it. Turning to his new sarong, he feels soft. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sometime in the early morning, Sehun sits in the cove Zitao had bundled them away to. </p><p> </p><p>On the rock near him, slightly damp because of an unforeseen spray of water, lies one of the letters. Sehun’s fingers brush over it quietly, but not with the intent of opening it. </p><p> </p><p>The sun is beautiful today. So is the sea. A little violent, with the way it’s rocking, but beautiful nonetheless. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun tips his head back, and sings the song Zitao had hummed.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun’s flip flops sink into the sand as he walks down the beach with Zitao. This is different from the one they’re staying at; there aren’t nearly as many shacks, just what looks like one warmly lit restaurant. He can hear soft music if he strains his ears enough. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He laces Zitao’s hand in his own, ignoring the look Zitao gives him. The wind is calm on his legs and his sarong is comfortable, so he’s going to hold hands with Zitao when he can. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You look beautiful,” Zitao had told him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “So do you,” Sehun had replied, grinning as he twirled for Zitao. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “We should get a lantern,” Sehun says, motioning towards the young girl in front of the restaurant trying to light one.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao nods. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “She looks way too young to be allowed to handle fire,” he comments as they get closer, seeing her struggle with trying to light the paraffin bar at the center of the lantern.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Well,” Sehun mumbles, already tugging them away from the ocean. “How about we provide some adult supervision?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao stumbles behind him, kicking up the sand as he tries to keep up with Sehun’s excited running to the kid.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hey there,” Sehun says, as they stand in front of the girl, who’s abandoned her efforts to light the lantern to look up at them. Sehun’s eyes glitter in the flickering yellow light from the restaurant’s outdoor seating. “You want some help?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The girl grins up at him, toothy, shoving the lantern into his hands. Sehun laughs as he goes to hold it, looking to Zitao to help him spread it out so that it can be lit and let go as quickly as possible.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They watch, grinning at each other, as the kid struggles with the lighter. Sehun can see Zitao’s eyes soften in front of him, and his own almost start to tear up when Zitao lets go of the lantern to kneel next to her.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Wait, try doing it this way,” he says, adjusting her grip and sparking the lighter, carefully bringing the flame up to the paraffin slab. Sehun rushes to hold up both sides of the lantern, making sure the side Zitao abandoned doesn’t burn.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The wax catches fire soon enough, and Zitao withdraws his hand, standing to retake his post to keep the lantern open, the warm air collecting in it. When it puffs up enough, they both let go, stepping back, as the girl grips the wire frame softly.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Go for it,” Sehun says softly. “It’ll fly now.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She takes a deep breath, and then heaves it into the sky, watching, like the both of them, with bated breath. It shudders for a second, as if it’ll sink back into the sand, but then the wind picks up, and it’s rising into the sky.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The girl rocks on her feet, standing on her tippy toes before grinning excitedly at both of them, and then running up the wooden steps of the restaurant, yelling something along the lines of “mama, look!”.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun laughs, walking a little further out to the beach with Zitao, eyes fixated on the lantern, now hanging over the sea.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “That was fun,” Sehun says.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Uh huh,” Zitao agrees, catching up to Sehun, their hands slightly brushing together. “Looks pretty, doesn’t it?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Mmhm,” Sehun hums. “I’d make you take a picture of me with it in the background, but I think it’s just nice to look at for now.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They fall into a comfortable silence after that, watching as the lantern becomes a tiny speck in the vast expanse of the night sky. The music from the restaurant is louder now that they’re close to it, and when a song that Zitao likes to play on the piano comes on, he extends his hand out to Sehun.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Wanna dance?”, he asks. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Just like Zitao to ask for a dance in the middle of the beach, with Sehun in a sarong and everyone with a clear view of them. Sehun smiles, and makes a noncommittal noise.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He slips his hand in Zitao’s. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>They had danced for a while that night, Sehun recalls fondly, him twirling and enjoying the way his sarong brushed against his legs, and then getting Zitao to twirl too. They’d eaten together at the restaurant, and Zitao had stolen some of his food, before they sat by the beach and talked till Chanyeol was blowing up their phones at 4 the next morning. It had been a lot of not so serious stuff, like Zitao’s job at the shop, and super mega famous popstar supreme Kim Kibum, and the moon, and some serious stuff, like Zitao’s family, and Sehun’s family and exes and tragic backstory.</p><p> </p><p>The sun is high in the sky now, a marker of how long he’s been sitting here thinking. He reaches over to grab the envelope, thumbing over the now bleeding ink that marks the sender’s address. Shaking the letter out proves a little difficult, considering how damp paper likes to stick, but he manages. </p><p> </p><p>Usually, he would pause to think about the words after every few paragraphs. This time, he can’t, eyes skimming over every word of this massive letter, trying not to cry. The paper is damp enough. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hun-ah, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry I didn’t write much in my last letter. Postcard. You know what I mean. I just… I don’t know. I miss you. I wish you were here.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fuck, is now a good time to mention I’ve been drinking? You can probably tell. You can always tell. Even when you’d be half asleep, you could tell when I was drunk. I’m not drunk now, I don’t think. I’ve just had a couple of whiskeys.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Wonder if I can blame this on the alcohol. I don’t know, I feel reckless, sunshine. It could be the fact that you probably won’t ever read this. Or maybe I’m just more drunk than I realise.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think…  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> A heart is a heavy burden. That’s what I think. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You ever think about how you say my name, Hun-ah? I do. A lot. You stumble over the “Zi” and make up for it with how you say the “Tao”. Like you’re popping a bubblegum bubble.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t think you’ve ever seen my face when you call my name from another room. It closes my eyes, weakens me. Makes me feel known, because you know me. You do, you know me in a way that’s terrifying.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’d like to think that I know you too. That this is a bridge we walk together, holding hands over rickety planks that threaten to give out any moment.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Holy fucking shit. This sounds like a…  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m not even going to say it. We both know, but I’m not going to say it. Mostly because I don’t think this is the medium to say it in. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think you’ve… you’ve wanted me to tell you for a while. And I haven’t. And I’m sorry, and I wish I had, and I wish I could right now. I would if you’d let me.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I just… I am terrified of hurting you. You, who already hurts so much. You, who has held life by the ugly face so many times and said yes, I will love you again. You, beautiful.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Terrified that I’ll… I’ll care for you in a way you don’t understand. Or enjoy. I have fears too, Hun-ah, and I just think of you every single free second I fucking have, and I think, “I should’ve told him, I should tell him”, because it’s true. Because I want to. Because you want me to.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Isn’t that what I do? Whatever you want me to? So I’m just frustrated at myself for being so fucking scared. I want to tell you. In the grandest way possible.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s like… I look back at my past self, and I’m like, of course you’ll hurt him! You’re hurting him right now! And he’ll hurt you too! Mortifying ordeal of being loved and all that! That’s kinda how this whole thing works, idiot!  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This is why I need you. Swat me with a newspaper when I’m being stupid.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You know, I’m not even sure why you’re upset at me. I mean, I get it. Me too. But I don’t know why, fully. Is it the move, the fact that I didn’t ask you about it, the fact that I didn’t tell you the thing I’m not telling you even now? I want to fix it, and I have no idea how. I just know I miss you.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you. How many times do I write it before it stops having meaning? I have many things to tell you, as always.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Coming back to names. I have many names to call you by, too. Scared to use them, because seriously, what the fuck has this letter become? I say I’m not going to tell you, but I’m doing something even more intense. Whatever. The names. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sunshine. Angel. Hun-ah.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My life, my love, my darling, mine, mine, mine.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> God, I’m glad you’ll never read this. I’m fucking incoherent. Well, we’ve always erred on the side of ambiguity, haven’t we? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Tell me what you want, my life, and I’ll give it to you. Tell me what you want, my love. Tell me, my darling, anything, talk to me again. I’m overly emotional right now. I know, I know, but without your hands for mine to fall into, I feel an awful sort of almost-grief. Like it’s always been there, but you covered it up.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If I was a poet, I would take this ache and make it something beautiful, send it to you and bare my soul. But I’m not a poet. I’m just someone who loves you.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How do I sign this off? I don’t want to say goodbye to you right now. Perfectly content sipping my whiskey and writing to you, who’ll never read this, for both of our sakes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Do I end it like I always do? I guess you’ll have to remember I mean it like I always do. Nothing changes even now. I always say it the same way.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Do you know that in Mandarin, the word for love has no tense? “Ai.” It stretches on, behind the past and ahead of the future, and around the present. So when I say this, know that I mean it in Mandarin. Infinitely.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I love you.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun shudders out a sob, clutching the letter as tightly as he can, words on the page blurring. He gasps, curling in on himself, and is once again overcome by the need to find Zitao and slap the life out of him for this. Stupid, stupid Zitao, who seemed so sure that Sehun would never read this that he damn near confessed, but continued to write anyways. Who loves him. </p><p> </p><p>For the first time in a while, he doesn’t admonish himself for it. Instead, he sits, curled up on a rock where the sea laps up against it, in love with Huang Zitao, and cries. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The room Sehun has this time is much smaller than the one they all got during their week here together. The single bed pressed against the wall glares mockingly at Sehun, who sighs once he emerges from the shower, after scrubbing the salt off his skin. </p><p> </p><p>He’s had a small dinner, and while he thinks about the idea of drinks later, as he settles on his bed, he realises he just wants to curl in on himself. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun stares up at the ceiling for a second, before he rolls over, restless after the letter from earlier and the clams from dinner. He reaches for the phone by his bedside, and types in a number like it’s nothing. Muscle memory. </p><p> </p><p>One ring, two rings, three, and then there’s a click on the other end. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello?”, Zitao says. Sehun has to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep from saying anything, suddenly transported back to that night in the psych ward. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello?”, Zitao tries again, and his voice is warm and rich and Sehun wants to cry and say hello back, hello, hello, he’s here, he loves him. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t. It’s weak, sure, but he doesn’t. Instead he listens, silently hoping Zitao will say something else, just so he can keep it in his mind. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Zitao says softly, as if he’s heard Sehun’s request. “I don’t know if you’re saying something on the other end, but if you are, I can’t hear you.” </p><p> </p><p>Sehun keeps his hand over his mouth, and screws his eyes shut. There’s a deep warmth spilling out from his gut, reaching the tips of his ears and his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” and Zitao sounds like he knows it’s Sehun, but isn’t quite sure. “Okay, I’m gonna hang up now.” </p><p> </p><p>Sehun breathes, hand slowly falling from his mouth. He can hear Zitao breathe, and a wave of desperation overcomes him. </p><p> </p><p>“I-”, he starts, voice heavy and rasping it out. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Click. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun walks down the street, arm slung in Zitao’s, making a snide joke about Chanyeol and Jongin’s drunken dance in front of them. It’s late in the night (or early in the morning, however you want to look at it), and they’re all a little rosy faced, Zitao’s grip on Sehun the only thing keeping the both of them steady. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s cold, and Sehun’s wearing Zitao’s jacket, with Chanyeol’s scarf draped over him as an extra precaution. Jongin had offered his beanie, but Sehun has no interest in looking like a toddler, so he’ll stick with cold ears, thank you very much.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yah, Chanyeol!”, Zitao calls, watching as both him and Jongin almost tumble off the pavement. “Watch it, you’ll both get hurt.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “We’re not that drunk!”, the call comes back, and they can’t tell if it was Jongin or Chanyeol who said it. Typically sappy of them to be indistinguishable.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “10 bucks Chanyeol will fall on his face before we get home,” Sehun says. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I really hope he doesn’t, but I’m not going to take that bet.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun laughs, and then Zitao does too, and for the first time in a long while, he feels content. They watch as their friends turn the corner, following quickly.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When they turn, however, they run straight into Chanyeol and Jongin, who’ve stopped in the middle of the street for no reason. Or what seems like no reason anyways.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s mostly empty at this hour of the night, but apparently someone’s been sitting on the curb after they presumably got kicked out of a bar at closing. Sehun pushes forward to see who it is, and then freezes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Well, well, well, look who it is,” drawls the figure in front of them, struggling to stand, clearly drunk.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun flinches at the sight of his ex-boyfriend, and instantly wants to go back to standing behind Chanyeol and Jongin, Zitao by his side. Zitao seems to pick up on this, coming forward so that he’s standing next to Chanyeol, close enough for Sehun to reach out to. Jongin puts a hand on Sehun’s shoulder. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hey,” Sehun mumbles out. “Um, it’s pretty cold out, and I really wanna get home, so-“ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Who’s the new one?”, his ex says, paying no heed to him. Zitao takes a step forward, concerned. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Why do you care?”, Sehun snaps, his tone surprising him and everyone else. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Forgive me for wanting to scope out my replacement.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “He’s not-“, Sehun starts, tripping over himself, blushing. “Okay. Firstly, you broke up with me. Secondly, we barely dated for a month and a half. And thirdly, he’s our roommate. We’re friends.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Shambling forward, his ex stops a few steps away from Zitao, giving him the up and down. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Must be getting cramped in your crappy little house,” and Sehun feels trapped in a way that he can’t describe. His ex reaches to touch Zitao, and Zitao takes a step back. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “So,” his ex continues to slur out. “You cater to the freak? Throw him his pity parties and then fuck him how he wants?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The silence that falls over all of them is astounding, and Sehun can see Zitao’s teeth grit and muscles tense. Chanyeol and Jongin seem pissed, too. He needs to get this under control.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He shoves himself between Zitao and his ex, and stares at him as solidly as he can. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Please don’t call me that,” Sehun says, quiet, resolute. “And please leave us. We don’t want you around. We just want to get home.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Nobody asked you, freak.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> His ex slurs it out, and then shoves Sehun’s shoulder lightly. Usually, it wouldn’t move him, but Sehun wasn’t expecting it, and it sends him staggering for a second. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Everything happens really fast.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao launches forward, punching Sehun’s ex square in the face, and gets hit back as soon as he recovers. Jongin pushes Sehun behind him, so much more sober now, watching as Chanyeol rushes to separate the two, shoving Sehun’s ex back and pulling Zitao toward him. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Zitao,” Sehun manages to gasp out, as his ex staggers away, screaming profanities. Chanyeol holds Zitao back with his hands on both his arms. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Zitao!”, he says, a little louder, scrambling past Jongin to inspect Zitao’s face. His lip is bleeding, and he’s going to have a nasty bruise on his cheekbone, but otherwise, he looks okay.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you stupid?”, Sehun splutters out, thumbing at the cut on his lip. Zitao hisses, and just stares at him. “Fuck that, are you okay? Did you get hit anywhere else?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Chanyeol puts a comforting hand on Sehun’s arm, letting Zitao go. Zitao attempts a smile, blood making it look almost scary. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m good,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun’s mouth falls open, and he turns to share a “what the fuck” look with Jongin. Turning back, he smacks Zitao’s arm.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Ow!”, Zitao whines. “Hun-ah, what the-“ </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sebum rushes forward, grabbing Zitao in a hug that hides the trembling in his hands. Zitao seems taken off guard, but then his hands come up to hold Sehun.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Thank you,” Sehun whispers into the hug. “Don’t ever do that again.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao just holds him tighter. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun doesn’t know why he thinks of that as he listens to waves crash against the shore, staring at the roof of his room. It had been early into Zitao moving in with them, seven (or maybe eight) months since Chanyeol had introduced Sehun to his “best friend and bro and partner in swag”. Sehun remembers leaning over to tell Jongin to shoot him now, please, god, and then trailing off halfway through when Zitao showed up, beaming in his signature curly smile. </p><p> </p><p>His ex-boyfriend had been… a lot. Neither Jongin nor Chanyeol had liked him, and Zitao had never really known him, but their one interaction made his stance pretty clear. It had been back when Jongin was still in college, right before Zitao joined their living situation.</p><p> </p><p>He supposes he was nice enough; he was funny and good looking, and wasn’t a serial killer, so that kinda counted for something. He wasn’t very… patient with Sehun, however. Felt freaked out by some things Sehun would say, or want to try out during sex (which was decent; not the best, but decent), or just feel in general. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not like his ex was a bad boyfriend overall; he was just a bad boyfriend specifically for Sehun. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever. He was still a dick. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun remembers how they broke up vividly, because it had happened at his ex’s place, and Sehun was already half naked, and it was all rather embarrassing really. He’d gone back home and cried into Jongin’s sweater for a good hour, even though it really wasn’t worth crying about. </p><p> </p><p><em> “I wanna be emaciated,” </em>Sehun had whispered out that fateful day, in response to a sultry question mid-making out. His ex had sighed, backed away, and then fucking shaken his head. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Can you just- just not be fucked up? For one, single minute?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>God. Sehun had lain there in quiet numbness before he finally managed to get up and put his shirt back on. </p><p> </p><p>Fucked up. Yeah, well. He can’t argue with that. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You know, I tell people, ‘please love me’, and I don’t think they ever understand,” Sehun whispers, barely audible over the ceiling fan.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What do you mean?”, Zitao asks, face inches from Sehun’s as they lay in bed.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I… I mean, I’m saying, please be tender with me. Be gentle. Don’t let me think too much, because that always ends so badly.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you think people aren’t?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I think…”, Sehun hums, thinking about all the people he knows and how he barely knows them compared to the three people in this house, and how he sometimes struggles with even them. “I think they try. Very hard. Too hard. They tiptoe around me but they never touch me.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun is acutely aware of Zitao’s hands on his knuckles. Is he an exception? Sehun doesn’t know.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Everyone loves me in a way I don’t understand,” Sehun whispers, and Zitao’s hand grips him tighter. He doesn’t say anything though, wanting to hear Sehun talk. “In their own way, I think- I think it’s love, I think they love me, but it’s in their own way, and I’m like a tourist with google translate on my phone in a country where I don’t speak the language trying to figure out what’s happening.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao is quiet for a moment, and then he speaks, voice low and scratchy.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you think people are going to love you in your way?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun doesn’t know how to process that, brain suddenly swimming through muck. It’s like the words send him reeling, mentally backwards, while his body stays where it is.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hun-ah,” and Zitao’s voice pulls him back. “Hey, hey. Come back to me.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m here,” Sehun mumbles, eyes sliding away from Zitao’s face. “I’m here,” and his hand turns to clutch Zitao’s, albeit awkwardly.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He gets like this sometimes, falls into his own mind and needs to be coaxed out. It’s okay. He’s okay.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m here,” he says again, willing his eyes to go back to Zitao’s. “Hi.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m sorry,” Zitao says, quietly, worriedly, tenderly. “I just-”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No,” Sehun says, smiling a little. “No, don’t worry about it. You’re right, but… I’m also a little selfish, you know? I just wish it would translate easier. That when people handed me a big ball of their love I knew something to do with it other than put it in the corner and watch it warily.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’ll translate for you,” and Zitao blurts it out like he hadn’t meant to say it, like it had just happened without him knowing it. Sehun smiles wider.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You will?”, he says, and Zitao is just lying there, perfect.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Whatever you want,” Zitao chokes out. Sehun laughs a little and Zitao eases up in front of his eyes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Okay,” Sehun says, feeling extremely present. “Okay, I want you to translate for me.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Let me know whenever,” Zitao says. Silence befalls them, for a second, and then Zitao thumbs over Sehun’s fingers.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Does this need translation?”, Zitao asks, gentle.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun feels like he should explode right there, but instead he just shakes his head.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. No, it doesn’t. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think he’s okay?”, Chanyeol asks, staring up at the ceiling, Jongin nestled into his side. </p><p> </p><p>“Can’t sleep?”, Jongin asks simply, leaning up a little. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m trying not to let it consume me,” Chanyeol says, quiet. “How do you deal with seeing someone you love in so much pain?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know.” </p><p> </p><p>They simmer in that, finding comfort in each other, always, always. Jongin thinks about how lost he would be right now without Chanyeol, caught on the outside of one of his closest friends’ internal crises. He doesn’t like to dwell on it. </p><p> </p><p>“I found thread yesterday,” Chanyeol says. “In his room. Spools of that red thread- you remember?” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin lets out a soft chuckle. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he says, throwing his leg over both of Chanyeol’s. “He’s sweet, isn’t he?” </p><p> </p><p>“The sweetest,” Chanyeol laughs. “I just- I feel so powerless, right now. Like I’m the side character in a story I have no control over.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Jongin hums out, fingers dancing along the fabric of Chanyeol’s shirt. “We just alternate with this, don’t we? Me fretting, you comforting, you fretting, me comforting.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t know what else we can do,” Chanyeol sighs. Then, “I love you,” unprompted, but welcome. </p><p> </p><p>Jongin smiles, leans into the crook of Chanyeol’s neck, allows himself to relax back into the mattress. </p><p> </p><p>“I love you too,” Jongin says. “I wish he didn’t hurt so bad. It makes me feel all cut up inside, and I’m not sure I deserve to.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Chanyeol sighs, agreeing. “Yeah, almost like… it’s selfish. Like I want him to be better for me, and not for him.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin takes a shuddery breath.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
“I love him even though I sometimes don’t have the stomach for it.”</p><p> </p><p>A pause, and then:</p><p> </p><p>“God, that sounds horrible.” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Chanyeol cuts in immediately. “No, I understand. It’s hard to love anybody. It’s hard to love. Doesn’t mean you love less.” </p><p> </p><p>“Loving you is like cutting up fruit,” Jongin blurts out, and wow, they <em> really </em> need to sleep. </p><p> </p><p>“I’d hope so,” Chanyeol says, eyes soft as they settle into each other, deciding to let this go for the night without discussion, trust that Sehun will be okay. “I shouldn’t be carrying all those apples back from the grocery store for nothing.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The thread in Sehun’s hands loops easily enough between Zitao’s fingers, over and over, until his knuckles are barely visible under red thread. Sehun sticks his tongue a little out of his mouth as he ties a knot, loops another length of thread through it, and gets started on his own hand.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao’s been silent since Sehun started; he’d started off jokingly whining about how Chanyeol and Jongin had received red string friendship bracelets but he’d gotten nothing, and then Sehun had glared at him, sitting him down and starting to loop thread over and over around his fingers.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When Sehun starts looping it over his own fingers, though, Zitao opens his mouth.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you know-”, Zitao starts, and Sehun knows he’s about to ask if Sehun knows the myth behind it, red strings connecting between people’s fingers.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yes.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Hun-ah </em>,</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I hope that you are warm.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Do you remember that one time I killed one of your plants because I gave it too much water? You were so mad at me, but you tried not to show it. I know you thought I was just being negligent, but I really wasn’t. In fact, it was just the opposite; I loved it too much.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t want to be able to love too much. I don’t really think you can do that, other than in terms of plants and water. I don’t think you can love something too much. We live in too brittle of a world for that to be possible. We must love things very hard and hold them very tight if we are to have any hope.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think of you; I’ve already told you this, like, in general, but I think of you specifically when I eat. We eat well together; you like the parts of food that I don’t, and together we can eat everything we want.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Am I rambling? Always am, to you. Do you mind? Are you reading this right now? Or will this be lost to the void?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I wonder if you think I love you too much; that the fact that I always let you have more of the japchae than me means that I am overwatering you. More likely though, you think that I am underwatering myself.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I need you to know that that isn’t true. What I do is the same as what you do when you save those little pudding cups in the fridge for me, smacking Chanyeol’s little gremlin hands away from them, when you pull them out specifically when I need them, when you offer to feed me.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You show me tenderness, and I show it to you as well.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And, make no mistake, you deserve all the tenderness in the world. The universe should touch you kindly.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> While we wait for that to happen, I’ll do it instead.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I wish we could eat well together.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“Hello?”, Sehun says, cramped in yet another payphone, this time by the gas station where he’s spent the last 20 minutes convincing himself not to cry over another goddamn letter. </p><p> </p><p>“Sehun?”, Chanyeol says, as if he can’t believe it.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, I’ve been gone a week, not a month.” </p><p> </p><p>“We worry,” Chanyeol says, softly, not responding to the joke. Sehun instantly feels horrible. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I just… I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but I miss you as much as you miss me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Sehunnie,” Chanyeol breathes out, and Sehun’s hands are shaking. “Of course I believe you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sehun confesses. “I don’t know why I’m like this, and it drives me even more insane, and I just-” </p><p> </p><p>“Shh,” Chanyeol says, and Sehun breathes, over and over, staying calm, “It’s okay. Just come back when you want to, and we’ll be here.” </p><p> </p><p>“I never mean to worry you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I know.” </p><p> </p><p>A brief pause, and then Sehun’s fingers start to itch.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell Zitao-”, he starts, and instantly regrets it when he hears the sharp intake of breath on the other end. “No, forget it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sehun-”, Chanyeol says, but Sehun can’t do this, not right now.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
“He deserves to hear it from me,” Sehun whispers, and it feels good to say it, to talk about him to someone else. </p><p> </p><p>“You took the letters, didn’t you?”, Chanyeol asks, voice low and solid. </p><p> </p><p>“I did,” and Sehun has to hold back a sob. “I did, I did.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol hums, and Sehun knows exactly the face he’s pulling right now, and it makes him feel warm inside. </p><p> </p><p>“He loves you more than he’s loved anyone or anything else, you know?” </p><p> </p><p>Quietly, gently, so as not to disturb the beetles crawling up the glass of the payphone that he’s just spotted, he answers. </p><p> </p><p>“I know.” </p><p> </p><p>“How long have you been without each other?” </p><p> </p><p>That’s when Sehun finally lets himself cry. </p><p> </p><p>“Why do I- why do I ruin everything I touch?”, he asks, and he’s <em> desperate </em>, clutching the phone like the cord that runs into the ground is the only thing keeping him on this planet. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t,” and Sehun senses Chanyeol is getting teary eyed too. “No, Sehun, you <em> don’t. </em> Do I look ruined to you? Does Jongin? Does Zitao? We will shake you and touch you and hold you and tell you this as many times as you need us to. We are not ruined just because we love you. We are not ruined just because you love us. You are not ruined. Full stop. There’s nothing wrong with you, and I can sit here all day and tell you that, until you fucking <em> believe </em>me, Sehun.” </p><p> </p><p>“I believe you,” Sehun gulps, and he realises that being loved is such a dangerous burden to bear. </p><p> </p><p>“Good.” </p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” Sehun says, earnest. “Tell Jongin I love him too. Always.” </p><p> </p><p>“Always. And talk to Zitao when you can bring yourself to.” </p><p> </p><p>“I- I will.”</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun puts on the radio, tuned into some song from the 80s he recognises vaguely as Uptown Girl, humming along as he stirs the pancake batter. He’s smiling, eyes shining, and when he hears Zitao come in, he automatically turns to him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hello,” Sehun smiles, waving to him before getting back to the pancake batter. Zitao smiles back, before sliding up right behind Sehun, hugging him from behind to get a good view at the pancakes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hi,” Zitao whisper-laughs. “You’re in a good mood.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Positively cheery,” Sehun replies, setting his spatula down.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “No, wait, chocolate chips, please,” Zitao says, and Sehun laughs at how insistent he sounds.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fine, fine,” Sehun says. “Go get some from the fridge.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What,” Zitao whines. “Noooooooo. Come with me, I don’t want to let go.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Of course you don’t,” Sehun mutters under his breath, and at that, Zitao starts inching them away from the counter to the beat of the music. Sehun lets out the start of the laugh, but quickly hides it with a huff.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao grabs his hand and then spins him, moving him delicately, but with ease. Sehun can’t help but play into it, letting himself laugh this time. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “There you go,” Zitao says, and he’s beaming, and Sehun feels happy, warmth filling the hole in his chest. Then he starts vocalising to the songs, and it’s a wonder Chanyeol and Jongin haven’t woken up yet.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Just grab the chocolate,” Sehun says fondly, as they get closer to the fridge.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Half an hour later, the two of them have batter all over their clothes, and four less-than-decent sized chocolate chip pancakes. Oh well. It will have to do.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> They make it up the stairs, Zitao balancing two plates in his hands and one on his head, while Sehun holds his own and a bottle of water. Once they get to the door, Sehun reaches for the handle, before hesitating.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I- er, what if they’re… you know?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao stares at him cluelessly for a second, before it hits him, and he makes a silent little “ah”. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Hold my head plate,” Zitao says, crouching a little so Sehun has easier access to be able to grab the pancake from Zitao’s head. Zitao adjusts the plates in his hands to all rest in one arm, and then </em> slams <em> on the door.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oi! You fuckers have till I count to five to get decent.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I made pancakes,” Sehun adds, softly, grinning.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “One!”, Zitao yells, punctuating it with another smack of the door.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Shut up and come in!”, Jongin yells from inside, matching Zitao’s tone.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao grins as Sehun replaces his head plate and then opens the door, walking in instantly.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Hello, my beloveds,” he says, addressing a bleary eyed Jongin in bear pajamas and a half asleep Chanyeol.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fuck you,” Jongin pushes out. Chanyeol makes a noise of agreement. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Oh? What’s that? You don’t want these delicious pancakes that our lovely Sehun has made, with chocolate chips? You’re all so heartless, come on Hun-ah, I love your cooking, I’ll eat their share.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Touch my pancakes and I’ll kill you,” Chanyeol announces, finally stirring at the mention of pancakes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’d like to see you try,” Zitao says, handing one of the pancakes to Jongin, and once again divesting his head of its plate. He hands Chanyeol the non-head plate, keeping that one for himself, sitting cross legged at the foot of the bed.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I would totally be able to,” Chanyeol scoffs, and the sounds of dissent from both Jongin and Zitao almost make his eyes pop out of his skull. Sehun hides his smile. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Sehunnie,” Chanyeol says, not willing to let this go. “Who’d win in a fight?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun looks at Chanyeol, trying to figure out if he’s being serious, and then laughs, before settling on the bed near Zitao.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you kidding? You have seen Zitao, haven’t you?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Chanyeol makes a squawk of protest, but then Jongin pipes up. </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> “Babe, stop embarrassing yourself.”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun laughs then, a loud belly laugh this time, and he’s aware of the way that makes all three of them smile. He likes it, he decides.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “I’m </em> taller, <em> you know,” Chanyeol presses on.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “By like an inch,” Zitao snorts.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Zitao actually knows how to throw a punch without hitting himself,” Sehun says sagely.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “And besides,” Zitao cuts in, with a smirk on his face, ignoring Chanyeol’s cries of “that was one time!” completely. “It isn’t about who’d win in a fight. It’s about  whether you’d be able to kill me. You’re simply too soft for that, and you like me too much to even think about it.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Whatever,” Chanyeol huffs. “This is just anti-Chanyeol club.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It’s going to become anti-Chanyeol-who-doesn’t-have-pancakes club soon enough if you don’t start eating already,” Sehun says.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “You wound me,” Chanyeol says. Then, continuing through a mouth of pancakes, “I am wounded. Also, these are </em> really <em> good.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Sehun made them,” Zitao says softly. “Of course they are.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun smiles, ducks his head, takes a bite of his own pancakes. They’re soft and chocolatey, and just warm enough. He smiles, looking at his friends. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> For now, he’s happy. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun finds himself in a cafe by the road; it seems vaguely familiar, like almost everything has since the beach, but he chalks it up to being emotional. </p><p> </p><p>Sitting by the window, he nurses his warm cappuccino in his hands. Not his first choice, but this place didn’t really have a lot of options. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a pen and piece of paper in front of him, which were abandoned long ago, as his attempts to scribble something in response to Zitao were met with nothing but the empty scratching sounds of the ink and meaningless words. </p><p> </p><p>What do you even say? </p><p> </p><p>“Hello, sweetheart, can you hear me, do you know me anymore? Can I call you that? Can I call you sweetheart? Are we there yet? I was never upset, you know. I just miss you. I just want to know where we are.” </p><p> </p><p>God. Sehun will be caught dead before he quotes Richard Siken in a normal human conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“Demons,” he mumbles under his breath, setting his coffee down. His backpack stares forlornly at him. “Just out here writing shit. How the fuck do I respond to ‘I wish we could eat well together’? What am I supposed to do with that?” </p><p> </p><p>Oh, and now he’s talking to no one. Zitao truly has driven him insane. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun sighs, and clutches the coin with his birth year on it between his fingers, having pulled it out while trying to find change for his coffee. </p><p> </p><p>He’ll have to figure it out sometime soon. Zitao deserves a letter of his own. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun emerges from his room, light footed as he makes his way to the kitchen. The mood in the house hasn’t been right for a while, and it’s achingly obvious.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The shop had pretty much laid Zitao off a couple of weeks ago, and they’ve been struggling since. Jongin’s been trying to find extra work, but there’s only so much freelance writing you can do, and Chanyeol’s barely been at home working overtime to make ends meet. Sehun doesn’t know what they’re going to do. Without Zitao’s job, they won’t be able to afford a lot of things that they desperately need.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The guilt that Sehun’s been festering in these past few days has been immeasurable; the amount of times he’s googled “ways to get a job without any qualifications at all whatsoever” is astounding.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He’s barely stepped out of his room when he hears the voices though.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “There’s no other way,” Zitao’s voice says, tired and resigned.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It’s so far away, though,” Chanyeol says, and Sehun can feel his fingers start to shake a little.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Yeah, well, if we want to be able to afford everything, far away is where I’ll have to be.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “And Sehun?”, Jongin says softly, and the way the silence creeps over them makes Sehun want to cry. Whatever this is, Sehun doesn’t want to know about it. He can’t.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What about me?”, Sehun says, emerging to see them all gathered around the kitchen island. Zitao immediately sits up from where his head had been buried in his hands, and Chanyeol and Jongin both straighten, mirroring each other. Sehun takes in all the paper on the island, probably budgeting, and has to take a steadying breath.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Sehun-”, Zitao starts, but Sehun cuts him off.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What did you mean far away?”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The way they all look at him is so incredibly guilty, like they’ve been doing something they weren’t meant to, and Sehun’s going to scream. He blinks carefully, trying to conceal his shaking hands, and tries to put on the most neutral expression he can.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Will someone answer me, pl-”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m moving out.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It punches Sehun straight in the chest, knocks the breath out of him, and leaves him floundering. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, his hands, his mouth, any of it.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “W-What?”, is the most he can strain out, and he can see that Zitao’s having a rough time too, but there’s only so much he can process at once.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I- uh, you know my uncle? He’s willing to get me some work, but it’s… it’s on the other side of the country. It pays, though. And he’s willing to figure out my accommodations, something about having a rich roommate, so I can… I can keep sending money back here. Keep supporting things here.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun sets his jaw. He can feel himself withdrawing, getting bitter, and he knows that’s bad, but he’s stubborn. He will always be stubborn. He will always try to sabotage himself. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “How long have you known?”, Sehun asks, quiet.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Well, uh, we only just- I mean, we just decided, but-”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “But you’ve been considering it. When did </em> you <em> decide, Zitao?”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> A pause, and then a sigh.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I- a week ago.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun nods, and leaves the room.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sehun’s hands shake slightly as he sits in the car, taking a break in the middle of the afternoon, having stopped by the side of the road. It’s empty anyways.</p><p> </p><p>The inside of his car is blisteringly hot, warm enough that the air is starting to feel heavy. He hasn’t turned on the air conditioning in a while. He doesn’t know why. </p><p> </p><p>The last envelope sits snugly in his hands, creased from being stuffed in his backpack for so long. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of head, and he takes a deep breath. </p><p> </p><p>He’d cried that day, more than he had in a while. Locked himself up in a room, not with Zitao, away from Zitao, like he was soon to be. Oh, he was selfish, but who isn’t? Guilt, he’s familiar with. And abandonment, he’d learn. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun remembers when Chanyeol and Jongin had first started dating, those few months where he was terrified Jongin was finally going to get rid of him, because Jongin had changed and had a new person to dote on, and Sehun wasn’t important anymore. It had been a different kind of ache, a drifting, that Sehun doesn’t even think Jongin ever noticed. </p><p> </p><p>Things had eased there though, and Sehun settled in with the new Jongin after months of internal turmoil, and had started to grow softly fond of Chanyeol. </p><p> </p><p>This… the news when he first got it, made his stomach plummet in the exact same way as those days. It was different though. Like a branch had snapped in a beautiful thing Sehun had, and now he needed to run, run and get the fuck out, before whatever’s coming found him.</p><p> </p><p>So he locks his door. Zitao can’t come in. He will sob about this separation in silence, and he will be stony faced on the outside, playing at being upset because being heartbroken is the worst thing to be. </p><p> </p><p>Now though, he is softer. He misses him. </p><p> </p><p>His fingers tremble as he opens the envelope, tearing the paper carefully, holding his breath to see what the last and most recent thing Zitao could think to say to him is. </p><p> </p><p>He’s expecting the smooth paper of the previous letters, but what falls out is a scrap of notebook paper. He lifts it gingerly to inspect it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I love you. Watch me hold my breath.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The thin paper slowly flutters into his lap, soft, slow, and Sehun takes a gulp of air. Again with the 80s schoolboy bullshit. God. Whatever. </p><p> </p><p>He turns on the air conditioning. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m leaving in a few minutes,” Zitao says quietly. Sehun sniffs in response, staring up at the ceiling. He’s going to come along for the trip, but he guesses Zitao wants to do his goodbyes now. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I already miss you,” Zitao says. “I feel like I’m drowning in all the things I have to tell you.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun sits up, makes eye contact with Zitao. Maps his face, memorises it. He doesn’t want this to happen. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Drowning in all the love I have for you.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Is this it then? Is it what it takes for them to finally cross the line? This is the confession that they’ve both been on the precipice of?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But then Zitao shifts the duffle bag over his shoulder, and steps backward awkwardly, clearing his throat.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Well, er- um. I just- I hope you’ll talk to me. I’m sorry. I’ll try to send some cool stuff over from the city, and, uh… yeah. Yeah.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sehun’s stomach sinks even further, and then he hardens. Oh, he is stubborn. He will always be stubborn, as long as it remains a way to cause himself pain. He wants Zitao to tell him, to say what they both know, to be brave enough and cross the line for him. He will not do it first. He is not the brave one.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Is that all you have to say to me?”, Sehun asks, and he says it softly, looking down so he doesn’t have to see Zitao’s face.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Fuck, Sehun,” Zitao starts. “If you asked me to list all I have to say to you-”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Zitao.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I… Yeah. Yeah, I think that’s all.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And Sehun’s heart breaks. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> --- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Sehun called,” Chanyeol mentions, carefully peeling an orange for both of them to share, as Jongin walks into the room fresh from a shower. “Told me to tell you he loves you.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin lets out a little laugh, the kind that makes Chanyeol want to scoop him up and never let go. </p><p> </p><p>“Always, without a fail,” he says. “He never forgets to tell us.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol smiles in agreement, sticky fingers still working open the orange. </p><p> </p><p>“He- I think he’ll be back soon. In some way or another.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not sure what that means,” Jongin says, carefully, “But if you say so, I believe you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Just a feeling,” Chanyeol says quietly. </p><p> </p><p>“Ooh, my boyfriend, the psychic.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol lets out a big hearty laugh at that, orange tumbling out of his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” he concedes, once he stops laughing.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, darling,” Jongin says, gently. “<em>I </em>have a premonition that you’re going to be late for work if you don’t get a move on.” </p><p><br/>
Chanyeol leans in for a kiss, and shoves a half of the orange into Jongin’s hands. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Sehun’s been spaced out for a while now, which is not ideal, considering he’s driving. Especially not ideal now that it seems like he’s coming up to the outskirts of a pretty heavily metropolitan area. </p><p> </p><p>He turns up a corner like he knows this place, and maybe he does. He wouldn’t know. He should be totally lost by now, considering he’s only driven based on vague whims, but since the beach… who knows. </p><p> </p><p>The road he takes leads him up a gradual incline, and then what seems like… an apartment complex. Dead end then. Time to turn back around. </p><p> </p><p>The thing about U-turns is that they require focus. Attention. And so when Sehun is near the end of the road, he blinks, just enough to snap him out of his reverie, so that he can turn back.</p><p> </p><p>And then he figures out where he is.</p><p> </p><p>When the steering wheel swerves, it is 100% completely an accident this time. When the car hits the wall and crumples on the passenger side, oddly reminiscent of a few months ago, Sehun does not want it to. When he’s able to bring everything back under control, he <em> does </em>it. </p><p> </p><p>The car skids to a stop, and Sehun is mostly unscathed, save from a tiny cut on his hand where some glass from the passenger side window had flown over. He’s hyperventilating though, the shock of the crash and the shock of where he <em> is </em> crashing over him in waves. His hands tremble against the steering wheels he takes in the damage, trying not to whimper. Oh <em> no</em>. </p><p> </p><p>He’s vaguely aware of a car alarm going off in the background as he bites back tears. He has to get out of here. He needs to leave, but the thought of driving after this shakes him up. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, you fucked it up,” he whispers to himself. A car accident is generally a bad thing, but with Sehun’s past history, and also <em> where </em> it happened, this is probably going to have him out of commission for a few days. Jesus fucking Christ. </p><p> </p><p>He stretches out his hands and wiggles his toes, trying to make sure everything works, and that he’s in sound enough shape to maybe walk from here to the nearest hotel. He can do this. He can do this. </p><p> </p><p>Then, he notices the sudden silence. The car alarm has finally shut the fuck up. </p><p> </p><p>He looks up for a second, and hears footsteps. A figure crouches by the window. </p><p> </p><p><em> “Sehun?”, </em> Zitao asks. </p><p> </p><p>He cannot do this.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“What were you <em> thinking? </em>”, Zitao asks, running up the stairs, Sehun gathered in his arms. He’d helped Sehun out of the car, and then realised Sehun was too in shock to be able to walk, so he’d scooped him up, and now here they are, rushing to Zitao’s apartment. </p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t do it on purpose,” Sehun mumbles. Zitao gives him a sharp look. “For real, this time.” </p><p> </p><p>The door to Zitao’s apartment is already ajar, and they walk in easily enough. </p><p> </p><p>The apartment is beautiful, minimalistic in that rich-person way. Zitao sets him down gently on the very comfortable couch.</p><p> </p><p>He looks sheepish already, fidgeting as he steps back. </p><p> </p><p>“Um, my roommate-”, he starts to explain, before he realises it’s probably not important. “You’re not hurt?” </p><p> </p><p>“I- no, just- just shaken up,” Sehun says, and he can’t believe he’s looking at Zitao’s face and hearing his voice and this is <em> so </em>much. “Listen, Zitao-”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” and he says it with a firmness Sehun rarely hears from Zitao. “We can talk about this after I’ve looked you over. I’m going to make sure you’re okay, then you’re going to eat something and take a nap. Then we can talk.” </p><p> </p><p>Sehun looks up at him, wonders how much he’s suppressing right now because he wants to take care of Sehun. </p><p> </p><p>“I missed you,” he says, prominent, but gentle, gentle. A confession. Zitao seems to fall apart and put himself back together internally, and Sehun takes in a shaky breath.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”, Zitao finally asks, though he sounds a little frazzled. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve missed you too.” </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Sehun lies in Zitao’s bed and tries not to cry, because his sheets smell like him, smell like Zitao, and oh <em> god. </em>He is extremely aware of Zitao’s general presence still in the room, fussing over the pillows and adjusting the blanket over Sehun. </p><p> </p><p>This is… this is not how he expected their first interaction after eight months to go. It’s been awkward, to have Zitao fussing over him, hastily fixing him food, leading him to bed, checking on him to make sure he isn’t injured. Almost like things are normal, but they aren’t. They’ve missed each other for so long, and now that they’re both here, they don't know what to do.</p><p> </p><p>He is in pain, he realises, as Zitao shifts away from the bed with a quiet “sleep well” on his lips. His heart aches, enough that he feels it in his gut. Either that, or the fucking car crash fucked his stomach up, without leaving a single other physical injury on him. He doesn’t think it’s that, though. </p><p> </p><p>A gentle creeping sense of oh my god, what have I <em> done </em>has overtaken him, about Zitao and the car and this whole situation, really. He can’t think about that now. Zitao wants him to sleep. He needs to sleep. </p><p> </p><p>He turns over in bed, and finds Zitao lingering in the doorway, looking softly at him, lit up from behind by the yellow light in the hallway. It makes his face look striking, and does nothing to hide the slight surprise on his face when Sehun turns, like he’s been caught. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” Sehun says, and the smallest smile bubbles up through everything else as he watches Zitao try not to fumble over himself.</p><p> </p><p>“H-Hey.” </p><p> </p><p>“What’re you looking at?” </p><p> </p><p>Zitao colours slightly, warm glow under his wonderfully golden skin. </p><p> </p><p>“I know what you’re thinking right now,” he says, leaning against the doorway. “I wish it wouldn’t make you ache so much.”</p><p> </p><p>“And I… I wanted to look at you,” as an afterthought. Another confession. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Sehun says, with a dry sort of laugh. “Don’t worry too much about it. I’ll learn to live with it.”</p><p> </p><p>“The car isn’t in bad sorts, if that makes a difference,” Zitao says, quietly. “I’ll be able to fix it up pretty easily.” </p><p> </p><p>“And you?”, Sehun asks, voice shaky. He has thought of confronting Zitao for many weeks now, thought about it in many different ways. Often in anger. This, though, is just all the misplaced tenderness from the past months finding where it needs to go. </p><p> </p><p>“Better now that you’re okay. Better now that I have you back.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry about the way that I am,” Sehun says, clutching the sheets. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Zitao says quickly. “No. I think there will be many apologies that the two of us will exchange once you wake up, but this isn’t one of them. I won’t allow it to be.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Sehun manages to breathe out. </p><p> </p><p>“For now, just rest, Hun-ah. We’ll figure this out, together, okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p> </p><p>As Zitao turns to leave, Sehun remembers the letter he’d opened today. </p><p> </p><p>“Zitao,” he says, and watches as he pauses, like a ripple has spread over him. He tries not to think too much about it. Zitao turns to face him again, and Sehun has to hold back a sob. </p><p> </p><p>“Hm?” </p><p> </p><p>“You can come up for air now.” </p><p> </p><p>As he watches the silent <em> oh </em>flit across Zitao’s face, Sehun is in pain, and he is loved through it.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“I think we all knew where he’d end up, eventually,” Chanyeol says, as he massages Jongin’s shoulders soothingly. “Even him. I think he knew from the second he took those letters.”</p><p> </p><p>Jongin snorts. </p><p> </p><p>“How did he even <em> find </em>the place?” </p><p> </p><p>“Memory is a funny thing.” </p><p> </p><p>“God,” Jongin says, burying his head in his hands. “And the car? He’s- he’s okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“Zitao doesn’t think he meant it,” Chanyeol sighs. “And he’s fine, physically, at least. The car is an easy fix from what I’m hearing. Not as bad as last time.” </p><p> </p><p>“I said I was going to kill him if this happened,” Jongin mumbles. “Just wait until he gets back home.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, well, I don’t think he’ll be alone when he comes back.”</p><p> </p><p>Jongin turns to look sharply at Chanyeol, putting a stop to Chanyeol’s ministrations. </p><p> </p><p>“You think-”</p><p> </p><p>“I think that whatever happens now, Zitao’s going to be with him. Whether he comes back tomorrow or months from now.” </p><p> </p><p>Jongin sets his jaw, and Chanyeol wishes he could read his mind. Jongin has known Sehun most, and Chanyeol knows he worries. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” he finally says, hand coming up to hold Chanyeol’s on his shoulder. “I’m glad they’re finally trying to figure their whole situation out.” </p><p> </p><p>“They’re both stupid as fuck for letting this play out for so long.” </p><p> </p><p>“It took you two years to even try to ask me out.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol winces, then nods. </p><p> </p><p>“Yup, noted, glass houses and stones.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mmhm.” </p><p> </p><p>“The four of us again, huh?”, Chanyeol tries. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I hope it happens sooner than later,” Jongin says. “I miss them both so much.” </p><p> </p><p>“What’s the first thing you want to do when you meet them again?”</p><p> </p><p>“Feed them,” Jongin says instantly. “Love them. See how they’ve changed. Love them again.” </p><p> </p><p>They sit in that, and Chanyeol goes back to working on Jongin’s shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>“I really love you, you know?”, Jongin says after a while, tender.   </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol tries not to double over, winded, and instead focuses on keeping his hands steady. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh?”</p><p> </p><p>“You make it easier,” Jongin says. “To love everybody else. To accept change. To be brave.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, Nini…”</p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol doesn’t know what to do with the feeling creeping up his throat, all honey and blackberries, bubbling up in the way he says Jongin’s nickname. What does he do with a love like this?</p><p> </p><p>“No, I just- I’m brave without you, okay? And I can love- have been loving for years before I knew of you, <em> difficult </em> loves, loves that have been sewn into my skin and are finally starting to let go. But- but just because I <em> can </em> doesn’t mean it doesn’t <em> hurt </em>. You make it hurt less.” </p><p> </p><p>Never once do Chanyeol’s hands cease, massaging the tense muscles under his fingers, while his heart grows a million sizes too big. Sehun had once told him about something akin to a hole in his chest. Chanyeol thinks that right now, he’s feeling the opposite. </p><p> </p><p>He bends, awkwardly contorting his way too tall body, to press a kiss to Jongin’s ear, then his cheek, his jaw, his neck, his shoulder. Jongin smells like lemons thanks to his new body wash, and he melts under Chanyeol’s touch. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know how to talk like you,” he manages to gasp out into the crook of Jongin’s neck. “I’m not the writer. But I know I can’t see beyond your hand when you hold mine. And I love you. I love you and I desperately hope it softens me.” </p><p> </p><p>Chanyeol hears a sob, and he’s not sure if Jongin is crying or if he is, but it’s okay. They’re okay. They’re with each other, and they’ll be fine.</p><p> </p><p>They’ll be fine.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” is the first thing out of Sehun’s mouth as he stands barefoot on the hardwood kitchen floor, hair still tousled from sleep. Zitao looks up from what he’s been working on on his desk and instantly softens and worries all at once when he sees Sehun. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Zitao,” Sehun says, and he hasn’t realised it yet but he’s trembling. “I’m sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>His voice cracks. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, hey,” Zitao rushes, stumbling over himself to get over to Sehun. “Hey, no, come here, I’ve got you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Sehun says, falling into Zitao like it’s the easiest thing in the world, because it is. Zitao’s arms are strong, gathering him up and holding him close and Sehun can’t <em> breathe </em>.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and he’s crying now, barely gasping it out. “I’m sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“Shh, Hun-ah,” Zitao says, and he smells like <em> home </em> , and Sehun is so fucking choked up because he’s missed him <em> so </em> much and he’s wasted so much time being <em> angry. </em>“Don’t cry. Please, please don’t cry.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Sehun whimpers out another time. “I’m sorry I’m so stubborn and I’m sorry I ripped up your first letter and I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you for eight fucking months. I’m sorry that I wanted something and wouldn’t tell you what it was and I’m sorry that I’ve left you so lonely.” </p><p> </p><p>Zitao’s fingers thread in and out of Sehun’s hair, holding him close, before he pulls back, making it so that they’re face to face, and he can comfortably grip Sehun’s waist instead. </p><p> </p><p>“Look at me,” Zitao says, and Sehun <em> does. </em> He <em> sees </em>him, sees Zitao, Zitao who is right here, who is holding him. “Listen. No, Hun-ah, listen to me. I forgive you. Do you hear me? I forgive you. I love you, and I forgive you.” </p><p> </p><p>Sehun lets out one big sob, and then lets his head fall forwards, resting on Zitao’s chest as he cries. He is held, he is forgiven, he is loved, and it is all so much to handle. </p><p> </p><p>It takes some time, but his sobs start to quiet after a while. Zitao holds him through it, tender, and then clears his throat as Sehun finally starts to calm down. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, too,” he says into Sehun’s hair. “The job, the moving-”</p><p> </p><p>Sehun lets out a laugh, crackly through the tears, and lifts his head, so they’re face to face again. </p><p> </p><p>“It was never- I wasn’t upset about the move. I mean, yeah, at- at first I was taken off guard and I <em> was </em> upset that you didn’t talk it out with me and I knew I would miss you, and I felt so <em> guilty </em> and torn up because I knew the only reason you <em> needed </em> to move is so that we could pay for <em> me, </em>but it was never about the fact that you moved. I know you would find a way to fold the world if it came down to it,” he says, interspersed with small sobs. </p><p> </p><p>A soft sort of realisation and ache blooms on Zitao’s face and Sehun knows he understands, but he should explain anyway. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s just… I- this thing, <em> us, </em>we’ve been so- I mean, what I’m trying to say is, is that there’s so many times where you’re brave for me. And I just- I just wanted this to be one of them. I dug my heels in the ground because I just- I just wanted to hear it from you, to have you… cross the line.”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean,” Sehun continues, a little breathy. “I mean, we’ve basically been living in subtext, you know? And I love you, I love you, and it’s in so many ways and I just- I want you to tell us what we both know. And I’m- I’m stubborn, Zitao. If there’s a way that I can make things difficult for myself, I will, and this- this was that.” </p><p> </p><p>“I can tell you,” Zitao whispers. “I can tell you everything you need to hear from me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”, and goddamn these fucking <em> tears </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Zitao says, and now he’s starting to sound choked up. “Yeah, just- I hold so much for you that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain. There’s so much in there and- and so little ever comes out.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll try to understand,” Sehun says, and he doesn’t know when his fingers flew to Zitao’s face but they’re there and trembling, as they stand in the middle of this fucking kitchen and it’s insane how they cling to each other like they’re both about to go down. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Zitao nods. “Okay, I- I love you,” he says. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun takes a deep breath. This is it. It’s happening.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m in love wit-”</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know how it happens. How he decides that no, actually, he can do this another way, how he smashes that stupid fucking glass screen and wins over the stubbornness, how he lets himself take over the moment. But he does. Zitao is halfway through his sentence when Sehun pitches forward and kisses him. </p><p> </p><p>He crosses the line first. And it’s everything he thought it would be.</p><p> </p><p>Zitao is gentle with him, like he always is, pliant under Sehun’s lips, gripping him closer. Their faces are both wet with tears now, and Sehun’s kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him. </p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” Sehun says, somehow pushing out in the short space of time when they aren’t kissing. “I love you, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you.” </p><p> </p><p>Zitao mumbles out something vaguely resembling the same, seemingly too caught up in Sehun’s lips and Sehun’s hands and Sehun’s skin and <em> Sehun </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun pulls away to breathe and then leans in again, much more shy this time, Zitao’s hands on his waist steadying him. Zitao leads this time, and Sehun makes a mental note to get him some chapstick after this. Not that he minds the way his lips scratch up against Sehun’s; in fact, he welcomes the slight sting. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun wants to be greedy, wants to take everything Zitao’s giving him and then some, <em> wants </em>. But Zitao is soft and gentle, even with how he nips at Sehun’s bottom lip to get him to open his mouth, even with how Sehun finds himself pressed up against the kitchen counter, even with how Sehun clings to him for dear life. Zitao is gentle, so Sehun will be too. </p><p> </p><p>“Hun-ah,” Zitao breathes out, pressing their foreheads together, and it makes Sehun <em> melt, </em>makes his head spin like it used to whenever he’d catch a sliver of Zitao’s skin under a shirt, makes him shudder like he would when he’d slip on Zitao’s clothes. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun lets out a soft little whimper at that, skin on fire and hands itching, kitchen counter digging into his hips. His hands are still on Zitao’s face, and then Zitao turns, and presses the gentlest kiss to Sehun’s wrist and Sehun almost breaks down. They’re pulse to pulse right now, and everything inside him is buzzing. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t-”, Sehun gulps out, and then swallows it back down, trying to collect himself. He chokes out a broken laugh. “This was a long time coming.” </p><p> </p><p>Zitao smiles, and Sehun is about to crumble into a million little pieces under his fingers. </p><p> </p><p>“I keep feeling like… maybe we should talk this out, or something more poetic, but I can’t- I can’t think of anything other than this to tell you how it feels when I think of you.” </p><p> </p><p>Zitao leans back then, cradling Sehun’s hand in his own, and then kisses each finger, gently, gently. When he’s done and Sehun’s pinkie is in flames, he gingerly lifts Sehun’s hand and places it over his heart. </p><p> </p><p>Goddamn emotional asshole of a man with such a <em> big, firm chest what the fuck why is his chest so firm.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Stop this,” Sehun chokes out. “Stop being so… sweet. All the time. Like I’m the good parts of the world.” </p><p> </p><p>“But you <em> are </em>though,” and that confession is practically dripping with glee, like Zitao has been holding back all along and now the dam has broken and he’s finally free. “And your hand fits too perfectly for me to stop.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know how you can believe that,” Sehun whispers, as Zitao holds his other hand and gives it the same treatment. Oh, between the kitchen counter and Zitao, Sehun is so warm, so loved. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to know,” Zitao says quietly. “Just believe me when I tell you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Sehun says softly, and he means it. Okay. The line doesn’t exist anymore, and they’re both still okay. </p><p> </p><p>He’d believe anything Zitao told him.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Somehow, Sehun finds himself pressed into Zitao’s sheets, Zitao hovering over him with his shirt half-on, time standing completely still as the setting sun filters in through the windows. </p><p> </p><p>They’d stumbled up here after pulling away from each other long enough to grab a small snack; enough time for Sehun to ask why there were photos of super mega famous popstar supreme Kim Kibum all over the fridge. Zitao had just shaken his head in response, and then Sehun had gotten too caught up in the fact that they were holding hands and Zitao was <em> here </em> and <em> in love with him </em> to really care about anything else.</p><p> </p><p>But now they’re here, and Zitao is kissing up the skin of Sehun’s neck, and all Sehun can do is lie there and let him, one hand lazily slung around his shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re beautiful, you know?”, Zitao says, and then before waiting for an answer, he leans in to kiss Sehun. Sehun almost doesn’t want to close his eyes, because Zitao <em> glows </em>in the sun, warm and striking, but he does anyway. </p><p> </p><p>When he pulls away, Zitao dips right back in, pressing a kiss to Sehun’s eyelids, the bridge of his nose, his cheek. The spot behind his ear, the corner of his lip, the vein of his neck. Little butterfly kisses that touch Sehun so kindly that he almost cries.</p><p> </p><p>Sehun’s overwhelmed, stars in his throat choking him up. It’s hard to be loved, but he’s going to let himself be. To let himself be loved is also an act of tenderness, and Zitao deserves all of it. </p><p> </p><p>“Can I unbutton your shirt?”, Zitao asks quietly, and all Sehun can do is nod, head heavy as he rests it, letting Zitao have his way. Zitao’s fingers are deft, one, two, three, and then Sehun’s shirt is slipping past his shoulders. He watches as Zitao balls it up, putting it to the side, so meticulous, so careful. </p><p> </p><p>Zitao’s fingers trail down Sehun’s skin, chipped black nailpolish stark against it. When Zitao leans down to capture a nipple in his mouth, all Sehun can do is curl his toes and softly exhale, hand threading through Zitao’s hair. </p><p> </p><p>He shivers, because Zitao is so warm and Sehun naturally runs cold, so every touch of his hands and his mouth feels like he’s being held and shaken and warmed up. </p><p> </p><p>“So beautiful,” Zitao repeats. “I don’t know how I’ve stayed so far from you for so long.” </p><p> </p><p>“Please,” Sehun whispers, grip on Zitao’s hair tightening as he moves to the other nipple. “You’ll make me cry. Again.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, love,” Zitao says, and his voice is bubbling as he says it. “It’s all just spilling out. So much stuff, you know?” </p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Sehun breathes out. “I wish I knew how to let it out like you.” </p><p> </p><p>“You <em> do,” </em>Zitao tells him. “You really do. You just don’t realise when you’re doing it.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t?” </p><p> </p><p>Zitao sits up, looking down at Sehun, who’s probably a sight right now, spread out and kissed raw. </p><p> </p><p>“You don’t. You’re doing it right now, you know, with the way you’re looking at me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I just hope it’s getting everything across.” </p><p> </p><p>“It is,” Zitao says, smiling. </p><p> </p><p>For now, Sehun will have to trust that. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The sun is down now, and it’s dark outside. Sehun takes a deep breath as Zitao works a finger inside him, aided by the lube he’s stolen from his roommate’s bathroom. </p><p> </p><p>Zitao is slow; so cautious, so careful, like Sehun is delicate, like he’ll fall apart under Zitao’s fingers. </p><p> </p><p>“You won’t break me,” Sehun whispers, as electricity zaps through him. </p><p> </p><p>“I could,” Zitao hums, watching as Sehun squirms under him, pretty bruises marking his neck and stomach and the soft part of the inside of his thighs. Zitao had kissed Sehun everywhere he could reach, and Sehun had simply said he loved him over and over. </p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” Sehun confesses, trying to be more clear about what he wants, trying not to bury it and then get all twisted up when no one knows what it is. “You’d put me back together just fine.” </p><p> </p><p>Zitao laughs a cracked, dry laugh, and then swoops in for another kiss. One finger turns to two which turn to three, until Sehun is chanting Zitao’s name, over and over, almost begging. </p><p> </p><p>He likes it like this, pushed to the edges and stretched thin, eyes glassy and mouth slack. People often take Sehun’s submissiveness as an extension of his tendency to self-sabotage, which, while partially true and not an unfair conclusion, isn’t why Sehun likes this. </p><p> </p><p>No, Sehun’s just always known how love rises from complete obliteration. Over the graves of the past selves of everyone involved. Falling in love, like flower petals fall when you play a game of he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not, like falling into an abyss. He wants to be emaciated, he says. Torn apart and put back together but taken care of all the same. </p><p> </p><p>It’s also control, in a way. A way to be needed, to provide pleasure and comfort. Right now, Zitao <em> needs </em>him, needs him to be pliant and soft and willing. And Sehun will deliver. </p><p> </p><p>Zitao is a darling, though. Pushing Sehun to his limits but being so gentle about it, and Sehun has trouble remembering how it could’ve ever been anything other than this, how it could’ve been anyone other than Zitao. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun gasps out Zitao’s name when Zitao finally pushes in, scrabbling for purchase. They’ve been leading up to this since the afternoon, Zitao softly working his way all over Sehun, slow and mellow. </p><p> </p><p>He loves Zitao so much, and he doesn’t think any sort of words would ever communicate what he means when he buries his face in the crook of Zitao’s neck to whimper out a half jumbled statement filled with nonsensical begging. He’s sure Zitao knows. Zitao has always known. </p><p> </p><p>“I love you,” one of them whispers to the other. Sehun can’t tell who’s who anymore, his hands so caught up in Zitao’s and Zitao so caught up in him. It’s fine. They’ve been passing the same thing to each other for the past few hours like a warm basket of muffins. </p><p> </p><p>You can’t really help it. Love is love, and language is horribly small and hard to keep track of. So what can you do with love so large other than make it a chant or a song? </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>Personally, Sehun’s never been a fan of the phrase “making love”. “Having sex” is a lot more accurate and a lot less gross, and “fucking” is straight to the point and direct. </p><p> </p><p>Now though, lying in bed, hand shyly tucked in Zitao’s, who has the loveliest smile on his face, now, with not a single working muscle left in his body, wrapped up in Zitao’s little blanket, he thinks he gets it. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not often that one gets loved so completely; when something like this happens, who is to say that they aren’t inventing a new love? </p><p> </p><p>The heaviness that settles in Sehun’s bones is the good kind, though he knows that him and Zitao still have some talking to do, and that the guilt will probably back soon, but right now, it’s okay. His fingernails and the tips of his ears and his belly button are telling him it’s okay. </p><p> </p><p>He is <em> so </em> not telling Zitao about this. Zitao’s definitely the type to latch onto a term like making love, and even if Sehun <em> understands </em> it, he doesn’t like it. </p><p> </p><p>It’s still kinda gross.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>When the sun comes up, Zitao is holding him, pulling the covers up over their heads before the sun touches them, like he used to do after nights where Sehun couldn’t sleep without nightmares, and needed a hand to hold. </p><p> </p><p>There are flowers growing in Sehun’s chest, beautiful and warm and they flourish under the covers, too. Who needs the sun when Zitao smiles at him like this? </p><p> </p><p>“Morning,” Sehun says lazily, and his heart is hurting just a little bit, thinking about how he doesn’t deserve this. </p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t morning till we see the sun,” Zitao hums, pulling Sehun in, and Sehun can’t help but feel static brewing where their skin touches. </p><p> </p><p>“Forgot how you get in the mornings,” Sehun smiles. He barely gets a grunt in response, and he rolls his eyes fondly. </p><p> </p><p>“Zitao,” he says, and watches as Zitao opens one eye, and then closes it quickly when he sees Sehun watching. “Zitao,” he stretches out, singsong this time, and it’s like a language of its own when Zitao opens his eyes and leans in to nudge their noses together. </p><p> </p><p>Sehun laughs, bubbling up from deep within him, and it’s just like all the nights they’ve spent with just the slightest distance between them. The kissing hasn’t changed much; it’s just that Sehun isn’t constantly walking a tightrope anymore. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think he deserves this, as is the case with mostly everything he gets, but Zitao does. Zitao does, and right now, it’s not morning yet because they can’t see the sun, and all the guilt and horrible things inside of Sehun are learning to be tender for a while. </p><p> </p><p>Just for a while, but it’s enough. It will always be enough.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> To Yeol and Nini, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> By the time you get this, the two of us should be a day or so away from you. Don’t ask if I couldn’t’ve just texted you this; Sehun insisted on me sending you a letter, and well, you know how it is.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Minho (my roommate) offered to help with the packing today so I finally have time to sit down and write this to you. I’m not sure what Sehun wants me to say to you, exactly, but he said that you would appreciate receiving love.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Don’t know about that. From personal experience, whenever I get sappy with you two, all you do is make fun of me. Anyways, he said that this letter is from him too, so I’m hoping that you won’t make fun of it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> I’m not even sure what he meant by sending you love. Really makes me sound clueless about the whole thing. I think we do that already, don’t we? But he said that the letters are special and </em> that <em> almost made me cry. Such and such is the way of loving, I suppose.   </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> About Sehun, I know you two are probably dying to hear things from me, seeing as he’s been having secret phone sessions with Jongin every time the two of us do anything remotely notable. I don’t have much to say, except that I feel like I’ve loved him a thousand lives. Like what Chanyeol told me when you two first met, Nini.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think all four of us have, actually. I think that it’s always about love, and it always will be, and we are very lucky to know each other. We don’t solve everything for each other, but we do ease it, and I think that’s all we can really ask for.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Here’s me hoping that you both have eaten well together today, and that you will sleep well tonight. I know that you’ll be hoping the same for us.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s wonderful right now that all of us are in the company of someone who we think of with unbearable fondness; that we are close to someone whose name is different in our mouth. It will be wonderful when all four of us get to sit together again.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> We miss you terribly. We’re counting down the days till we return, and we hope you’re prepared for a smothering of hugs and bad jokes.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> All the love, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zitao and Sehun. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ahhhhh there we go! this has been,,, i want to say 7 months of work for me? in b/w college apps and exams and stuff,,,, but ah, i rlly hope u enjoyed this! pls leave a comment if u have something you'd like to share with me about this, this fic is so special to me and i'd love to hear what you have to say. </p><p>i hope that you are having a warm and tender day. i hope that you are loving and being loved. thank you so much for reading.</p><p>you can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/hztwsx">twitter</a> and <a href="https://taohun.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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